Perceptions of Reality
by Xanthia Morgan
Summary: Charlie's brother accuses him of wanting to hide away from the real world, but what does Agent Don Eppes really know of his brother's life? Of his work? COMPLETE
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fan fiction. The author is making no money from it. NUMB3RS, its characters, settings, etc., are the sole property of its creator's and CBS television.

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**Perceptions of Reality**

**By Xanthia Morgan

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**Chapter One**

_"You don't know anything about life, Charlie! You haven't got a clue what goes on in the world unless it smacks you in the face! You spend your time in your ivory tower building your aerodynamic go-carts and teaching your classes while the rest of us are out dealing with life and all that comes with it! You don't even have your own place! Instead you're still living with Dad, letting him take care of you! God, Charlie, grow up! You can't live this kind of life forever! Expecting everything to be handed to you because you're smarter than everyone else! Some of have to work for what we get, Charlie. Some of us have to make it on our own!"_

**December 27**

Professor Charles Eppes sat in his empty classroom and let the words flow over him again and again like so much poisoned water. He didn't need to be in class, the school was on winter recess. But he'd come in to be alone. He'd come to get away from his father's covert looks and meaningful throat clearings that all but screamed "I'm here if you want to talk about it". The truth was he didn't want to talk about it. He wanted to think about it. And the best place for him to think was here, in the silence of an empty campus amid the familiar and comforting scents of books and chalk dust.

The argument had been unexpected. He and Don had been able to work around each other pretty well in the past few months without exchanging words but he should have known it wouldn't last. He'd been helping Don a lot lately, maybe too much. He knew this last case he'd helped out on had been at the request of Don's Bureau Chief, not Don himself. Maybe that's what did it. Maybe being put in his shadow once again put Don over the edge. Charlie didn't know for sure. He only knew that once again he'd managed to anger his older brother without really being sure how he'd done it; one minute they were sitting around after Christmas dinner and the next they were screaming at each other.

"_Do you have those new numbers for me, Charlie?" _

"_There aren't any new numbers. I told you that what I gave you was all I had."_

"_Well, when you work it up again, let me know. Briggs wants an update." _

"_Look, Don, I need some time away from this, I need to get back to my research. I can't be of any more help in this case anyway, I told Briggs that two days ago. You've got all the information I have." _

_The truth was, he hated this case. He wanted nothing more to do with the pictures and the crime scenes. He'd become somewhat – not used to it, he would never be used to seeing the horrible ways people could kill each other – resigned to the fact that if he was going to work with the FBI he was going to see things he'd rather he didn't. But this last case, it was too much for him. He couldn't even look at the badly beaten bodies, the terror filled faces, frozen in death. He was losing sleep and he had a huge consulting project due the end of January. A project he hadn't devoted nearly enough time to. _

"_You said you'd help out, Charlie."_

"_I know, and I have. You have all the data I could put together. There's nothing left for me to do. And I need to get back to my project, it's important." Did he dare tell Don the truth? That he couldn't handle the details on this one? He took a deep breath. "The truth is I can't deal with this one, Don. I just … I can't do it. Not this time. I need to get away." _

"_Get away? You need to get away? My God, Charlie, what do you think this is? What do think is going on here? Don't you think that there are times I wish I could get away? This is what's going on out there, Charlie!" Agent Don Eppes grabbed a stack of crime scene photos from his briefcase and threw them at his brother's face. Five men, one not much older than Charlie, had been brutally beaten then strangled to death. "You don't just get to 'get away'! And **this** is what's important! Not how fast some prototype can go or how many points you can score on Tempest!"_

"_I don't play Tempest," Charlie said, trying to fight off the anger that was building inside him. "And the project I'm working on isn't about vehicle prototypes, it's about…"_

"_It doesn't matter! It doesn't matter what it's about because it's about nothing! Your work is always about nothing! And for someone who's supposed to be so smart you sure as hell don't see it!"_

"_What do mean nothing? What the hell do you know about it?" Charlie shot back. "You don't even know what I do! My research has very important, real life applications! Applications you don't hesitate to use when it suits you!" _

Maybe that's what had done it. Maybe by alluding to the fact that he sometimes felt Don only brought him out of mothballs to use him had been the final straw. But Don had been angry before that. Charlie buried his head in his hands. He just didn't know. Besides, he had bigger things on his mind now than Don. The ringing of his cell phone some time later brought him out of his reverie. He looked at the overseas number on the caller i.d. and closed his eyes. He'd been expecting this call as much as he'd been dreading it. With a sigh that was as much regret for the project that was now going to be even more overdue as it was for the sleep he knew he wouldn't be getting, Charlie answered. Real life had come calling, and in a very big way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"_So, Eppes, I hear that your little brother refuses to pull your ass out of the fire again. Maybe he figures it's time you did your own case work for a change." _

_Don wasn't sure why, but there was something about Agent Jack Carlson, beyond the fact that the man was a grade-A ass, that made the back of his neck tingle. He looked at the large blond agent standing in his way. "Charlie has contributed all he can to this case, Carlson."_

_Jack Carlson sneered. "Yeah. Well, tell me, how does it feel to know that you can't investigate a case without baby bro filling in the blanks? I hear that you two graduated high school on the same day. Tell me, did you have to carry him onto the stage to get his diploma?"_

**January 7**

**11:15 am**

Alan Eppes heard the front door open and waited for his oldest son to appear from the foyer. It had to be Don. He was the only one who used the front door anymore. Charlie always came in through the back when he came home.

"Dad?"

Yup, he thought. It was Don. It was comforting to know he was right once in a while. "In here," he called.

"Hey," Don called as he peered into the dining room.

"Hey yourself," Alan replied pleasantly without looking up from his newspaper. He glanced at his wristwatch. "Kind of early for you to be out of the office isn't it?"

He heard Don move past him into the kitchen and pour himself a cup of coffee from the insulated thermos. "I didn't to into the office today."

Alan looked up and saw that his son, the sight of whom had become synonymous with suit and tie, was wearing old jeans and a faded blue Oxford shirt. For Don to have taken a day off meant that something was going on. He put down his coffee cup and folded his newspaper. "Want to talk about it?"

His oldest sat down and stared into the steam rising from the mug in front of him. "Talk about what?" he replied evasively.

"Why you're here on a Friday morning out of uniform. You haven't taken a day off in a year at least."

"Yeah. Well, I had some time coming. The case we're working on is at a bit of a stand still."

"Still doesn't explain why you're here."

"Do I need a reason to be here?" Don asked with a defiant look.

"Of course not. This is your home, always will be as long as I'm around. You don't need a reason to be here. But I suspect that you **have** a reason for being here."

Don ran his hands through his short-cropped hair. "Am I that obvious?"

"To me. I can always tell when something is on your mind. You're easier to read than Charlie. Now Charlie," he let the name of his younger trail off for a moment. "Your mother was the expert in that area."

"Charlie." The name was almost whispered, Don said it so quietly. "I need to talk to him, Dad. I need to tell him …" he floundered, ashamed of what he'd said to his brother but not quite able to put that shame into words. "Tell him … you know."

Alan nodded and blew out a breath. "Yeah, I know." He paused a moment. "I have to ask you, son, what made you say those things? You've been working pretty well together, I thought. Did something happen between you and Charlie that I don't know about?"

Don hung his head. "No, Dad, nothing happened, nothing to do with Charlie, anyway. Not directly." He stopped for a moment, trying to put into coherent words the reasons behind his lashing out. He knew from experience that his father would patiently wait until he had it clear in his head so he took his time.

"We have been working well together. I mean, Charlie's a great help. I honestly don't know what we'd do without him sometimes. And I appreciate what he's done for us. I know it hasn't always been easy for him." Don stopped again. He remembered the shell-shocked look on his brother's face as he stared at the blood and carnage of the crime scene outside the bank a few months before. He remembered that Charlie had almost given up the case because he thought he was responsible for the ambush; because he couldn't bear the idea that the information he provided almost got Don killed. The FBI agent shook his head and took a long drink of coffee, mentally banishing Charlie's haunted eyes from his mind. This was going to be harder than he thought.

"About two months ago a new agent was posted to our office. His name is Jack Carlson and he's … he's not someone I'd want watching my back in any circumstance. His game is that he gets into agents' case files under the pretext of getting a feel for who's working with. He takes stock of who he's up against and uses the information he gathers to detect any weaknesses."

"Ah," the Eppes patriarch murmured sagely.

"Ah?"

"Ah. As in "Ah" he sees you as top dog and put you on the top of his hit list. Am I right?"

Don sighed heavily. "You have no idea. We are the third So Cal office he's been assigned to in the last ten months."

"This guy sounds like a real winner. How come he's still in the field?"

"He doesn't actually do anything wrong. That's the problem," Don informed him with a helpless gesture. "He simply makes himself a pain the ass and manages to alienate everyone around him. I guess the Bureau figures if hey transfer him enough they'll find an office he can actually work in."

"So what's he doing to you?"

"He's found my weak spot."

"Ah."

"Again with the 'ah', Dad."

" 'Ah' as in Charlie."

"Yeah." Don scrubbed his face with his hands. "He says I'm only where I am because of Charlie's abilities. He uses Charlie's participation as a consultant to undermine my abilities as an agent. No one is taking him seriously but he's letting everyone know that he thinks I'm nothing without my little brother there to provide answers and he's seriously pissing me off."

"So you decided to vent your frustrations about this moron on your brother."

"I don't know, Dad. It's not just Carlson. It's this case. I know Charlie gave us all he had. The whole case in an anomaly, he says. There's no apparent hot spot to work with, there's seemingly no connection between the victims except that they are all males. They all had different jobs. They all had different lifestyles. They all lived in different areas."

The federal agent surged to his feet and squeezed his fingers against his eyes. "There's something here we're missing, I can feel it. I just …. I know Charlie said he's done all he can for us but there has to be something else. Something that links these guys somehow, **something**."

"There is something that links them, Don. Something that I think is bothering you more than you care to admit."

"What's that?"

"Each of them has gotten progressively younger and the last one was about Charlie's age."

Alan watched his son wrestle with his thoughts for a moment. He'd figured out what the problem was quite awhile ago, he just figured Don needed to come to terms with it on his own. He was glad, in a way. It showed just how much Don cared about Charlie. Not that he'd ever really doubted it.

After a few moments, his son sat back down, his shoulders slumped in defeat, and held up his head with his hands. "I guess that's some of it," he admitted. He looked up at his father, distress written all over his face. "I see his face in the photos, Dad. I see those guys and I see Charlie's face. It's almost like… like some kind of premonition. It's almost like it's already happened and I can't stop it."

Don hated feeling this way! He had spent years in college studying criminal science and his years at the Academy learning to stifle his emotions. Outwardly, he was as detached as the best of them. He'd managed to detach himself inside, too, most of the time, and at those times when it was hard he took pride in the fact that no one ever knew. Well, almost no one. But this time it was different. This time there was something going on that he couldn't suppress and he couldn't explain and he hated it. He hated it even more because it had caused him to lash out at the one person who deserved it the least. He sighed heavily.

"I just want to see him, Dad. I want to tell him I'm sorry."

"I'm afraid I don't know what to tell you, Don. I haven't seen Charlie in days."

A feeling of alarm crept through Don Eppes. "Days? Charlie hasn't been home in days?"

"No, now I didn't say he hasn't come home. I said I haven't seen him."

"Dad, you're not making any sense. What's going on with Charlie?"

Alan shook his head. "I wish I knew. He comes home late. He leaves early. I don't think he's sleeping because I hear his phone ring in the middle of the night and I can hear him talking. I don't know if he's eating because he's not here for meals."

"Dad! Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Say what? He's a grown man, Donny, even if we don't always treat him like one."

"Do you know where he is? Do you have any ideas?"

"I'm guessing he's in his classroom. It's where he goes when he needs to get work done."

"Classes don't start for another two weeks."

"Your brother does more than teach classes and consult for the FBI."

"I know he does. I guess I just never thought it would take so much time."

"Your brother may be a genius but that doesn't mean the work does itself."

"Yeah. Look, I'll drive over to the campus and see if I can track him down."

The elder Eppes nodded and Don could see in his face how worried he was. They both knew that while Charlie was indeed a grown man he didn't always have the common sense to eat regular meals or get enough sleep. When he was consumed by a project, it took up his entire realm of consciousness. And Charlie had, not recently but in the past, worked himself into such a state of exhaustion he'd had to be hospitalized.

Don stood up and pulled the car keys out of his pocket. "I'll try and find out what's going on and I'll call you. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Anytime. Now go on, find your brother. And, Don, take a sandwich along, would you? Charlie … " At a loss for how to put his feelings into words, Alan shrugged.

Don put a hand on his father's shoulder and nodded. He knew what his father was trying to say.


	3. Chapter 3

Some notes:

Maryton, New Jersey is a fictional place.

Regarding the seismic events of December 26, 2004 –no disrespect for the situation or for the dead is intended.

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**Chapter Three**

_Dr. Larry Fleinhardt looked at the data in his hand and gave his young colleague a concerned look. "Are you sure about this? I mean, it's awfully soon to be delving into something like this."_

_Charlie knew his friend would have a hard time understanding. He stood up from his desk and the faxed sheets that were scattered all over it and walked to the window, letting his eyes focus on the bright blueness of the sky as he tried to explain. "After she died, I tried to find out all I could about the cancer that killed her. It's one of the rarer forms out there and I wanted to make sure that …" Charlie's voice failed him. Try as he might he couldn't erase the bone deep pain that still stole over him when he spoke of his mother's death. Time had not healed this wound, it was as fresh today as it was then. He took a deep, controlling breath and glanced at his mentor. "I guess I wanted to make sure there was nothing I could have done."_

"_Charles, math can't solve everything. You know that." _

"_I know. I just … I had to make sure… for myself." Charlie looked out the window again. "Anyway, I found out that, in the last six years, two hundred and four people in the U.S. have died of the same type of cancer that my mother had, and that fifteen of those people lived in or around Maryton, New Jersey. They were also similar in age to my mother."_

_Larry shook his head. "I still don't see the connection, I'm sorry." _

_"I did some more digging and found that an another fifteen people out of that two hundred and four were born and raised in the Maryton area. That makes thirty people out of just over two hundred. My mother was one of them, Larry. And if there is something out there that is causing this to happen I want to help find it."_

_Charlie could see that the good doctor needed some reassurance. "Look, the project isn't due until the end of January. It's not all that hard, technically speaking. The data's already been compiled; the numbers are already on record. All I have to do is factor the probable odds that something in the Maryton area has contributed to the development of the same type of cancer in thirty people over a six-year time period. Unless something major happens between now and then, it'll be easy."_

**January 7 **

**12:57 pm**

Don felt his breathing get tight as he walked closer to Charlie's classroom. He wasn't sure what to say. Should he pretend like nothing happened? Should he apologize right away? He hated situations like this, even more so when he knew himself to be the cause. Hesitating just outside the doorway, he took a deep breath and told himself he would let Charlie set the tone. Having decided that, Don stepped forward into the classroom.

Charlie was sitting at his desk with his head cradled in his hands. Don couldn't see Charlie's face but it was clear from his body language that his brother was exhausted.

"Hey, Charlie," Don called softly.

Charlie jumped as if a gun had gone off. He put a hand to his chest and heaved a deep breath of relief. "Don! Jeez, don't DO that!"

Don laughed, he couldn't help it. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I didn't mean to scare you. I, uh, guess it's been pretty quiet around here lately."

"It was until now," Charlie told him accusingly, but there was no anger in his voice. If he was truthful with himself, he was glad to see his brother. The past two weeks had been long ones and he missed having Don around to bounce things off of, but Don had been so angry when they last parted, he'd been reluctant to approach him. "What brings you to the halls of academia?"

"A roast beef sandwich, actually."

Charlie blinked at him, clearly puzzled. "A roast beef sandwich? The cafeteria isn't open, Don."

"Not for me, for you." Don held up the bag he was carrying and shook it a little. "Dad and I missed you at lunch and we weren't sure you'd take the time." He regretted the words as soon as they were out. Charlie was sure to be angry that his father and brother were plotting against him, treating him like a child. But to his surprise and relief, Charlie only sighed and rubbed a hand against his forehead.

"Yeah, I guess I have been a little distracted lately."

Charlie had opened the door, Don took advantage and walked in. "What's going on, buddy? Dad's says you're not sleeping, you're hardly home. He's worried."

"I don't mean to worry him. I've just … I've got a lot going on. But one project is almost done, and the other… the other is ongoing, for a while anyway."

"You're not superman, Charlie. Even evil geniuses need to take time to eat." His brother laughed at that, the old in-joke between them, as Don hoped he would. He set the bag with the sandwich on Charlie's desk. "Now, how about you eat this before it gets warm."

"Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?" Charlie wondered with a smile. He was glad that the tension between them was gone, glad that the words they exchanged were part of the past. His relationships with Don and his father were complicated ones, but they were the only things he truly valued more than anything. He often wondered if their presence in his life was the only thing that kept him sane. His train of thought was interrupted by a yawn. God, he was tired!

"You gonna make it through lunch?" Don wanted to know. "How about I run up to the corner and grab you a Coke?"

Charlie nodded around another yawn. "That'd be great."

"Okay, then. I'll be back in five minutes. I want to see some progress on that sandwich, okay?"

In the short space of time it took him to get the soda, Don prepared a list of arguments to present to Charlie as to why he should go home and get some sleep. From gentle persuasion to outright dragging Charlie to the car, he covered all possible lines of resistance. When he got back to the campus, he realized he needn't have bothered with the mental preparation. His little brother was still seated at his desk; face down on stack of data, sound asleep, the sandwich still in the bag.

"Oh, Charlie," Don sighed. "What are we going to do with you?" He walked over to where his brother slept and put down the Coke he'd brought. In the warm, filtered sunlight he studied his brother, something he had been too distracted to think about before. Lines of fatigue were deep around Charlie's eyes and the stubble of several days' growth of beard was dark on his face. Despite the wear he was currently showing, Charlie looked, to his eyes anyway, to be very young, much younger than his actual years. He saw the sheets of data scattered over Charlie's desk and frowned at what he saw.

Half of the desk was covered with maps of what looked to be Asia decorated with Charlie's unique shorthand scrawls and bunches of crossed out calculations; lists of foreign sounding words were lined up in neat columns followed by a number. Anything over four digits was highlighted in pink and numbers over five digits in yellow. Charlie's handwriting took up the margins of many of the pages and Don could make out various mathematical calculations with arrows and question marks pointing to some of the figures. What was this? It didn't look like most of the work Charlie involved himself in.

Scattered on the other half of Charlie's desk were faxed printouts from some health agency in New Jersey. He picked up a few loose sheets and read the first few lines of type. A slight noise at the doorway caught his attention and he looked up, immediately on guard. It was Larry Fleinhardt, holding a paper bag with the logo of the deli Don had been at earlier.

Don grinned at him and Larry motioned him to follow.

He picked up the sandwich and the soda, not wanting to leave them in the warmth of the sun, and followed his brother's friend into what looked like a small staff room.

"Great minds think alike, I guess," he joked as Larry opened a refrigerator and they set their bags side by side on the shelf.

"Great minds that know your brother do, that's for sure," Larry replied with a sideways glance at the FBI agent. "How anyone so brilliant could be so …" he didn't finish, not sure how Charlie's brother would take his comment.

"Clueless?" Don volunteered, then chuckled at the startled look on Fleinhardt's face. "It's not a family secret or anything. We've always known that the only thing that can outgun Charlie's genius is his complete lack of common sense."

"I was thinking more along the lines of obsessive/compulsive but clueless works just as well. It just seems that Charles takes it to the extreme sometimes and lately," Larry's good natured smile melted into a worried frown, "…lately he's been spreading himself awfully thin. To be honest with you, Don, I'm worried about him."

Don fanned the papers he still held in his hand out for Larry to see. "What IS this? Why would Charlie be involved in cancer studies? Unless he's changed fields without my knowing?"

"Yes, that. It involves research into a cancer cluster – that's a group of cancer victims located in the same area – and this particular cluster centers around a place called Maryton, New Jersey."

It was Don's turn to frown. "Maryton? My mom was from there."

"Yes. It seems that an abnormally high number of people of your mother's age have been affected by the same rare cancer and Charlie is doing a probability study on whether the cases could, statistically, be related."

Apprehension he couldn't hide stole over Don's face. "Why would he be involved in something like that? **How** could he be involved? I mean, aren't those things usually handled by the state? Or the Feds?" He didn't like the idea that Charlie was involved in this, now matter how altruistic it might be. He honestly didn't think his brother was strong enough. Not emotionally anyway, not yet. Hell, he wasn't sure he was.

"As to why," Larry continued on, "Charles is the one who discovered the cluster. As to how, he got himself in through a contact at Princeton. It's not unheard of, certainly. I've just been worried that it's too much for him, especially in light of recent events."

"Oh," Don was a bit startled. Did Charlie discuss family matters with Dr. Fleinhardt? It was certainly possible, he guessed. Larry was Charlie's only real friend. "He told you about that then."

"Well, not all the details. He only told me that it's been very difficult."

"Yeah. I guess it got to us all," Don admitted. The vague feeling of shame that had plagued him for two weeks began to flicker again in his midsection.

"Yes, well I was shocked, of course. I mean, who wouldn't be, it was unprecedented. But to rehash it day after day, I think it's just too much for him."

Don was beginning to feel very uncomfortable with this conversation, but he couldn't just walk away. Their fight had affected Charlie that much? "He rehashes it every day?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"Of course. He has to, to make any sense of it. Between this and the cancer project no wonder he doesn't sleep. And that woman! I told him she was trouble but he didn't listen. Every time she needs something, she calls Charles and he says yes. Now she's on the phone with him every night and of course, because her office is in Australia, she has to call during business hours for them, which is the middle of the night here."

Don felt as if he had suddenly walked into a parallel universe. "Larry, you lost me. What exactly are you talking about?"

Larry picked up a complex printout from the staff room table and handed it to the agent. "That! Can you believe he even took it on? It would be enough to drive anyone nuts."

"What exactly am I looking at?"

"The tsunami zone in the Indian Ocean Basin. You are aware of it aren't you? The tsunami?"

"Of course I'm aware of it, but what does that have to do with Charlie?"

"He hasn't said anything to you?" Fleinhardt was genuinely puzzled.

Don shook his head. "I'm still not sure what 'this' is. I haven't seen Charlie in two weeks. He mentioned he had a research project he had to work on, but he wasn't specific."

"Two weeks ago … that would have been the cancer cluster project. He's said nothing to you or your father about this new project?"

"No. All Dad has told me is that Charlie is home late, up early and on the phone in the middle of the night. He's worried. And, now, so am I. Larry, what is going on?"

Fleinhardt opened and closed his mouth a few times before answering, as if trying to find the exact words to explain what Don was about to hear. "Have you ever heard of Gray Global?"

"Are we talking about Gray Global, the international studies group based out of Great Britain with offices all over the world doing research into the impact of the global economy?" Don asked.

"Exactly!" Larry sounded surprised Don had ever heard of the organization. "How did you know that?"

"The name came up during a tax fraud investigation Charlie helped out on. Our suspect was claiming to have diverted money into some kind of charity fund they have, then claiming the deduction. But we discovered that he didn't actually have anything set up with Gray."

"Okay then, we're ahead of the game here. Gray does have a charitable portfolio division. It allows a person to put money into a portfolio, like a stock portfolio, then they can choose what charitable organization they want the money transferred to, how much to transfer and how often, that sort of thing." Larry's brow furrowed as he realized he was giving Don information he already had. "But, I digress and you already know that because of your previous case, so I don't know why I'm telling you about it now." He brushed aside the error with a wave of his hand and went on. "Gray also does research on global economic impact **and** they have a very small, but well respected, division that catalogues natural disasters and the long-term impacts such disasters have on a community, country, region, etcetera. Are you with me so far?"

Don nodded. He still had no idea what this had to do with Charlie but he was worried enough that he was willing to wait the man out for an explanation.

"Good. The global disasters division is headed up by a woman named Dr. Suzette Beauchamps. She handles the compilation and dissemination of information for these things. Usually her team handles all the statistical information without any help but when the situation warrants, like when there is an abnormally large number of, say, casualties or property damage, she will outsource her figures to be validated."

A cold feeling began to settle in Don's stomach. Snippets of CNN Headline News ran through his head and images of bodies washed up on devastated shorelines ghosted across his line of vision. Unimaginable death tolls were being recalculated daily as the overwhelming scale of human loss in the wake of the tsunami was realized. He closed his eyes and willed the images to the back of his mind while he pushed down the feelings of dread that were creeping up and down his spine.

"Larry, please tell me that Charlie is verifying property loss."

Larry Fleinhardt shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Don. I wish I could."

"So Charlie is …" Don couldn't get the rest of the words out, the thought was too horrible.

Fleinhardt finished for him; his own voice less than steady at the thought of what his young friend was doing every day. "Charlie is recalculating the reports from government agencies in over ten countries. Dr. Beauchamps has him confirming body counts."


	4. Chapter 4

Note: I have no idea if Don's boss is named Briggs or not. I'm pretty sure a superior's name was mentioned in the first and 2nd episodes but I didn't catch it and it didn't seem relevant. So, I made up Briggs. - Xanthia

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**Chapter Four**

"_Hey, Charlie, thanks for coming in."_

"_Yeah, sure. What do you have?" _

"_Briggs handed me a case that just came down from Sacramento. Over the past nine months, five men in the state have been severely beaten then strangled to death."_

"_Location?"_

"_The first two were in the north – Shasta Lake vicinity and Eureka. The third was in San Francisco. The fourth was in Yuba City. The fifth was here in L.A. We inherited the file with the latest victim. Seems no one put two and two together until this last murder." _

"_Any connections?" _

"_They were all male – different ages, different marital statuses, different occupations, different everything except the M.O."_

"_Okay. Any relation in the dates of the murders?" _

"_That's what Briggs wants you to find out. And anything else you can come up with. He doesn't want this file to go any further than it has." He handed his brother a working copy of the thick file._

_Charlie flipped through the pages of information, his keen eyes cluing in on any usable information. "It's not much to go on but I'll do what I can, Don. I have to tell you though, I have a big project coming up. I'm not sure …" _

_But Agent Eppes didn't wait to hear him out. He simply put a casual hand on his brother's shoulder as he headed out for the daily briefing. _

"_Thanks, Charlie. Whatever you can do would be great." _

**January 12 **

**6:15 am**

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Charlie awoke to the sound of birds. The past few weeks had seen him waking before dawn, the constant streams of data running through his head making it impossible to sleep. But last night he'd climbed into bed at nine o'clock and had slept through without waking once. It felt wonderful. And he was certain his father would be thrilled.

Alan had been very quiet when Charlie had told him about his projects. Don had insisted on it. Charlie didn't mind, once he was made aware of how worried his father had been, but he was deeply concerned his father wouldn't approve, that the Eppes patriarch would consider what he was doing inappropriate somehow. And disappointing his father was a hurt that Charlie couldn't bear to think about. The man had done everything in his power and more to make certain that his exceptional son had received everything he'd needed to utilize his gifts, even though he didn't always understand them.

For a long time, Charlie and his father found it difficult to communicate what the other needed. It had become harder after Margaret Eppes had died. But lately, the two seemed to have come to somewhat of an understanding of each other, a certain level of comfort that wasn't always there before. That comfort was a joy to Charlie and he was deeply concerned what his father would think of what he had been doing all these weeks.

"So that's it. That's what I've been doing." Charlie had told him everything.

"You discovered this cancer cluster on your own by researching your mother's illness?"

"Well, not on my own. The data was out there, I just brought it to their attention."

"And there were other people from Maryton who had this disease? Other families going through what we went through?"

"Yes. I felt I had to do something, Dad. If something could be done …" Charlie's voice trailed off. He could see that his father was taking this hard. "I just felt I had to try … to see if I could help."

Alan had closed his eyes then, afraid that the emotions building within him would spill out if he didn't. "And then you took on the burden of verifying the number of people killed in the tidal wave."

"Um… tsunami… yes."

"Because you wanted to help."

"Those numbers will help determine how much relief assistance each community can receive…"

Charlie's father cut him off with a wave of his hand, and then sat very still for many long moments. Just when Charlie thought he would have to leave, that he couldn't take the silence any longer, his father spoke.

"Charlie, I have always been proud of you, you and your brother both. You have always tried to make good choices in your lives. But …"

The young man braced himself for the disappointing blow that was sure to come.

"… I have never prouder of you than I am at this moment."

It took Charlie a moment to realize what his father had said and he let out the breath he was holding. He looked up and saw tears on Alan's face.

"I wasn't sure … I didn't think you'd approve," he whispered as emotion clouded his voice.

"That's your biggest weak point, Charlie. You don't always think. You should work on that." Then Alan smiled at him, and pulled his son into a firm embrace. "Just see that you get some sleep, okay?"

That was five days ago. Yesterday he'd sent off his findings on the cancer cluster. He was one hundred percent certain it would garner an investigation. After all, he'd shown that there was eighty six percent likelihood that something in the Maryton vicinity had caused the illnesses. And that was enough to spark anyone's interest.

Charlie stretched and enjoyed the feeling of not having to be anywhere today. It was raining, lightly from the sound of it, and he could hear it hitting the leaves of the tree outside his window. He was fairly certain his father wasn't up yet, it was still pretty early, and he thought he would do something for his dad for a change and make his morning coffee. Pulling on sweats and a tee shirt, Charlie headed downstairs. Noting the rain was falling harder, he grabbed the newspaper off the front steps and headed into the kitchen. He rolled off the rubber band that held the _L.A. Chronicle _together and let it fall open on the counter, glancing at the headlines as he spread the paper out to dry. Charlie stared, struggling to process what he was seeing.

The story's headline was small, not the main news of the day, but still important enough to run on the front page. By the time he finished reading, Charlie was breathing fast and heavy. It seemed as if the whole world had coalesced into four square inches of black typeset and it was beginning to wobble at the edges.

"Facts, Charlie!" he told himself. "Examination. Verification. No assumptions."

Forcibly quelling the panic that was rising in his gut, Charlie made himself walk to his computer. He pulled the names of the victims in Don's latest case back into his memory bank and sent them, one by one, into the netherland of cyberspace. "If I'm wrong …," he told himself. But he knew he wasn't. He had the same feeling now as when he was at the end of a long equation. All the pieces were falling into place and the answer was obvious, even though it was still three or four calculations away. The Internet made those calculations for him. Unable to comprehend that he was right, Charlie went back into the kitchen to read the article again. Maybe he had missed something. Maybe he had read it wrong. He hadn't, and as the ramifications of his findings closed in on him, Charlie could feel the panic rushing up inside of him.

Alan Eppes looked down at where the paper should have been and stared at the empty wet stoop. The absence of his morning constitutional could only mean one of three things. It didn't come, which was possible but unlikely. The neighbor's dog had gotten a hold of it again, which was also possible but unlikely. Or Charlie was home, the least likely reason of all. Hoping that the last was true, Alan turned himself around and headed for the kitchen. Best to check on the closest possibility first, he thought. What he did not expect to find was his youngest son leaning against the counter as if it were the only thing holding him up and breathing like he'd just run a marathon.

"Charlie!" he called, the concern heavy in his voice as he rushed to his son's side. "Charlie, what happened?"

Charlie turned toward his father and Alan gasped. The young man's face was white; it looked like the face of someone who'd seen a ghost. It was the same look Charlie had worn when he was told his mother was dying. Alan felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Whatever had happened was bad. Real bad.

"Sit down," he urged as he gently pulled the young man to the floor. "Sit, now, before you fall. Sit!"

The younger Eppes let himself slide bonelessly to the floor. "What happened, Charlie?" his father was asking him. Charlie opened his mouth but no words came out.

Alan could see the struggle Charlie was having just trying to form words. He looked around the kitchen to see if there was anything there that might have triggered such a reaction. The only thing different than the day before was the damp paper spread out over the counter.

"Is there something in the paper, Charlie?"

A small movement of Charlie's head, barely a nod, and eyes wide with something deep and powerful, something Alan was hard pressed to put a name to, were all that he needed to see. He grabbed the paper and pulled it down to the floor. There was nothing amiss as far as he could tell, just the same old news.

"What is it Charlie? What did you see?"

With a shaking hand, Charlie pointed to an article in the bottom right corner.

_**Prominent Los Angeles Software Genius Murdered**_

_**The body of William David Michaels, founder and C.E.O. of Wunderkind Software, was found late last evening in his Los Angeles office. The probable cause of death was strangulation but there are reports that the victim was also severely beaten.**_

_**Police are not releasing any information as to a motive or possible suspect but it has been speculated that Michaels may have interrupted a burglary in progress although nothing in the office was immediately reported missing.**_

_**Michaels made headlines five years ago when, at age 22, he was hailed as the youngest entrepreneur to break the ten million dollar earning mark by Software Fortunes magazine. Michaels, a child prodigy, was recognized as a genius by the age of fourteen, and a member of the exclusive Omega Tau fraternity. He started Wunderkind Software, so called for the nickname he received at Cal Tech where he earned dual Masters Degrees in Computer Programming and Software Engineering at age 18. Michaels went on to develop the Prodigy line of learning software aimed at helping children with learning disabilities master computer skills. He was also in the process of finalizing software that would enable autistic children to communicate through computers by using eye movements instead of fine motor functions to manipulate a mouse and utilize keyboard functions. **_

_**Mr. Michaels was a member of the Historic LA Revitalization Committee, Chairman of the Los Angeles County Library Board of Trustees, and a consultant to many other civic organizations. He is survived by his wife, Madeleine, and three young children.**_

"My God," was all Alan could manage. He, too, was in shock. William Michaels was well known to him. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I … I don't know what to say."

"Dad." Charlie's voice crackled with tension. "I have to talk to Don. I have to tell him something."

"Charlie, I don't think you should be talking to anyone right now. You need to calm down first."

"Now!" Charlie shouted, as he pushed away from his father and stumbled to his feet. "I'm sorry, Dad, but you don't understand! I need to… I need to…" His ragged breathing didn't allow him to finish his sentence. The rational part of his brain that was still functional knew that he was in the midst of a full blown panic attack, something that had not happened to him in years. But his body wouldn't listen to the commands that his consciousness was desperately sending. He could no more calm himself down than he could stop the terrible thoughts that swirled through his head and for the first time in a long time, Charlie was genuinely scared. Not since he was a teenager had he so completely lost control of himself, at least not where someone else would see.

Sensing that Charlie was unable to help himself, Alan got up and grabbed his son firmly by the shoulders, undeterred by Charlie's harsh tone as he yelled at his father to stop. He knew that his son was not responsible for his actions at this moment. He knew that Charlie was too far gone in the anxiety that coursed through him.

"Charles Alan Eppes! You need to sit down before you fall down, and if you won't do it yourself I **will** do it for you." The tone was unmistakable and years of habit were hard to break. Charlie sat down heavily in the chair he found miraculously underneath him.

"Now," Alan commanded with a hard shake of Charlie's shoulders, "look at me. Look at me, Charlie! Good. Now, breathe. In …out. In…out. Slowly. That's it. Breathe, Charlie." With the patience only a parent could manage, he managed to coax his agitated son into a calmer state. After many long moments, when Charlie no longer looked like he was about to pass out and a modicum of color returned to his pale cheeks, Alan released his shoulders and took his son's face gently in his hands and spoke to him slowly. "Tell me what is going on. Why do you need to talk to Don?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"_Name of deceased is William David Michaels. Cause of death is most likely strangulation, although he was badly beaten just like the others. No signs of forced entry." Agent David Sinclair ran through the particulars with precision, anticipating the questions his supervising agent would ask. "There are indications that some kind of struggle took place but there's no indication of robbery. We don't have a definite from the ME but she's thinking time of death to be between 7:00 pm and 8:30 pm when he was found by the janitor." _

_Don could only listen with half an ear as Sinclair ran down the particulars, most of his attention was taken up by the body on the floor. The face had been beaten almost beyond recognition but recognize it he did. Not in the way you recognize someone famous you see in the papers or on TV, but recognized as someone you knew. Someone you played softball with at a picnic or poker on a Saturday night. _

"_Don?"_

_It took him a moment to realize that someone was talking to him. He shook himself out of his thoughts and looked up at Terry Lake. "Sorry, Terry. What?"_

"_I asked you if you were okay. You seem to be distracted."_

_Don nodded slightly. Distracted would work. "I know him."_

_Terry's eyes widened just a bit in surprise. Whatever she expected to hear, it wasn't that. "William Michaels?" she clarified, just to make certain they were talking about the same 'him'. _

"_Yeah."  
_

"_Don. I'm sorry. I didn't know."_

"_Yeah. We don't exactly run in the same circles, do we?" He walked away from the body, giving the ME's team the go ahead to close up the body bag. " Damn. Is there any way we can keep this under wraps?" _

"_The press had a hold of it as soon as the family was notified." Don could tell Terry wasn't happy about the information being leaked so quickly. He wasn't thrilled about it either. It didn't give him much time. _

"_I have to call Charlie. I have to tell him."_

_Terry was puzzled. "We won't have any information for him to work with until tomorrow at the earliest. Why call him now?" _

"_Because other than Larry Fleinhardt, Bill Michaels was Charlie's closest friend."_

**January 12 **

**8:12 am**

"I have the connection." Charlie blurted out as soon as Don walked into view. "I know why these men have been," he choked for a second on the word, "murdered."

Don Eppes stared at his brother for a moment, not so much because of what he said but because he was actually able to speak coherently. Charlie sat one of the living room chairs. His face was pale and the dark stubble of morning beard against his skin made him look even paler. His breathing was controlled, too controlled to be normal. His hands were clutched into fists in his lap and Don could tell that every muscle in his body was taut with anxiety. His father stood behind him, like a guardian angel, though Don wasn't sure yet who he was guarding against. Clearly the news of his friend's violent death had affected him deeply. Hell, it would unnerve anyone.

"Charlie, I'm sorry I didn't call you myself about this. Things were …"

Charlie cut him off, not so much rudely but as if he had to say what was on his mind before he exploded with it. "All of them belonged to a fraternity. An obscure fraternity that no one would have known about unless they knew exactly what they were looking for."

"Okay, Charlie. Go on." Don spoke calmly and sat down across from his brother, trying to convey to the younger man that he could take his time. But time was apparently something Charlie didn't feel he had to spare and he rushed into an explanation.

"In 1971 a UCLA professor named Albert Blaylock began a fraternity. He called it Omega Tau and, while he didn't submit any charters for the fraternity it became fairly well known in California. It wasn't a social group or active in any events, it was simply the prestige of membership that drew applicants. The original members met maybe once or twice in it's early stages and after a time they didn't meet at all unless it was by accident or if one happened to mention it to another."

Charlie surged to his feet and began to pace as he recited the information he'd acquired.

"Through the 70's and 80's it didn't grow much, the qualifications for membership were too high for most people to achieve and like … like nineteen out of twenty applicants were turned down. By 1990 there were only fifteen members and Blaylock realized his experiment had failed and Omega Tau ceased to exist."

Don halted his brother's frantic movement with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Slow down, Charlie. It's okay. So all the victims belonged to this fraternity? This Omega Tau?" Charlie nodded, but Don wanted to be certain. "You're sure, Charlie?"

"Yeah," Charlie swallowed. "I'm sure."

The agent turned to Terry Lake. "We went through all those backgrounds. This never showed up."

Charlie interrupted a second time. "It wouldn't have. Like I said, if you didn't know you were looking for it, you would never know it was there to be found."

"How did you figure it out?" Don was well known for being extremely clearheaded under pressure, and his intuition was telling him that there was something he was missing. Something wasn't adding up right and Charlie knew what it was. Don suspected his father did as well. And it terrified them. He could feel the fear radiating off them in waves. Still, this wasn't just a family matter. It was an ongoing FBI investigation and he'd quell the uneasiness, ask the right questions and let Charlie get to it in his own good time. "What made the connection?"

"Bill," Charlie swallowed again. "Bill was a member. When I saw … when I … when I read what they wrote about him, about what he'd accomplished, I realized that there **was** something each victim had in common; something that, in this day and age, most people would overlook. Something that **I **overlooked which is unbelievable, I mean you'd think ... "

"What's that Charlie?" Terry asked, gently steering back on track. Charlie was extremely distressed and it didn't take her background in psychology to see it. He was also dangerously close to losing whatever control he had over himself so she pulled him back on topic.

"Success. They were all very successful. And they were all very successful at a very young age." He began to tick off the men who'd been killed, counting off each death on his fingers. "Martin Wilcox started a chemical engineering firm at age 21. Leroy Johnson was an independent consultant at 19. Mark Levinski began designing the Shasta Lake watershed at 20. Paul Bertrand made five million in advertising before turning 22. Alan Ivers …"

"… incorporated IverSmart before he was 22." Don picked up the recitation as Charlie got to the first victim in LA. "And then Bill."

Charlie nodded. "And then Bill."

"I still don't see how you figured out the Omega Tau thing, Charlie. What made you think these men had been involved?"

"Remember I said that Blaylock's experiment had failed? His goal was to recruit an organization of the exceptionally gifted. It wasn't like an honor society, like Phi Theta Kappa, it was more than that. It was the brightest young minds of his age."

Charlie could see that no one had any idea where he was going. He took a deep breath and tried to slow himself down, tried to make himself think past the panic at a more normal speed. "It wasn't a traditional fraternity for traditional college students. When I said 'young minds' I meant it literally. Omega Tau was only open to you if you were," Charlie hesitated, trying to find the words that would make them understand, "if you were like me, Donny. Like me."

Realization began to dawn on the other people in the room, in varying degrees of clarity.

"You mean," Don said slowly, "that this Blaylock created a fraternity for child prodigies? For kid geniuses?"

"Yes. And all these men were members. And, Don, the ones here, the ones still in California, they were all killed in chronological order, from the first members on."

"Wait a minute. You said there were how many members? Fifteen in all, right? He's killed six, that means there are nine more to go! We need to get a hold of them, we need to make sure they're protected! Terry, I want you to find out… " Terry had already anticipated the command and was reaching for her notebook but Charlie's voice cut her actions short.

"I don't think they're in danger."

"What? Of course, they're in danger, Charlie. Six other members have been murdered!"

"The only victims so far have been limited to California. And these others, they either live out of state or out of the country. If the pattern held true they would have already been eliminated, and according to what I've found online they're all still alive."

Charlie pulled a crumpled printout from his pocket and handed it to Don while he spoke.

"Vincent Radley is in New York, Tyson Wheelis is in Maine, Fred Baker is in Florida, James Nash is in New Zealand, Dennis Alvord is in Great Britain, DeVaugn Lange is in Japan, Oscar Knaack is in Austria, and Neil Billingsly is in France.

Don checked off the names as Charlie recited them. "That's great, Charlie, but there's only eight names here. That means we have one more member unaccounted for. Is it Blaylock himself?"

"Blaylock died in 1998."

"Well who is it? Is there any way you can find out who's missing?"

Charlie began to pace again, furiously, and Don was suddenly struck with the image of a caged lion who sensed danger and was unable to escape.

"I… uh … I know who it is. He was the last member to join."

"Do you know where he is?" Don didn't think it was possible but Charlie's face grew paler. The breathing that his brother had been trying so hard to control was now coming in short gulps. He began to move forward, afraid Charlie was about to pass out but from the corner of his eye, Don saw his father, who'd been standing completely still this whole time, move forward and pull Charlie's back close against his chest, pinning his arms in front of him in a firm, but gentle hold. It was a moment out of the past, when anxiety attacks had sometimes debilitated the twelve-year old college student.

For a second, Charlie struggled against the pressure, but then the fight went out of him and he sagged against his father.

Don asked again. "You know where he is, don't you Charlie?"

"He's here," was the barely audible reply.

In the silent seconds that ticked off after Charlie's last words, the icy cold sliver of dread that had been lodged in Don's gut since this case landed on his desk grew large enough to impale his spine. He felt his own breathing speed up as his mind went completely blank, like a computer rebooting after an overload. "You mean in he's in California."

Charlie's eyes never left those of his brother as he shook his head. He willed his brother to see the connection because now that the moment was at hand he couldn't put it into words, he couldn't articulate past his heart which was pounding somewhere in his throat. He watched the denial in Don's eyes come and go and come again. Then he saw the hard, cold reality hit him. Don didn't need to be told who the next victim was. He'd been looking at him since he'd walked through the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**January 14**

**11:46 pm**

Don pulled up the house and parked his black SUV next to the Bureau car already in the driveway. He nodded to Agent Hillman who was on duty outside and let himself in the front door. Although it was well after eleven, the downstairs lights were on and he could hear voices in the living room. Agent Billy Radcliff sat drinking coffee. Charlie was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, comfortably dressed in loose sleep pants and a tee shirt. Stacks of paper and maps were spread out around him and he was talking on his cell phone.

"Yes, Suzette, I know what you're telling me but I am telling you that someone in your office messed up. Look, I have 110,229 in Indonesia, 30,893 in Sri Lanka, 10,672 in India, 5,313 in Thailand, 298 in Somalia and another 222 between Myanmar, the Maldives, Tanzania, Kenya, Bangladesh and Malaysia. That's a total of 157,627."

Agent Radcliff beckoned Don over. "Do you **know** what he's doing?" he whispered.

Don sat down and pinched his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "Confirming fatality reports from the tsunami," he confirmed quietly.

"I know you're showing 163,338 but that does not line up with what you've told me. And that does not take into account the 27,161 still missing. If we added those in we'd be up to 184,788 according to my numbers."

"Man. I could not do that and stay sane." Radcliff's voice was tinged with awe and respect. He hadn't thought much of the resident mathematician who also happened to be Don Eppes little brother. What was one more overeducated math geek to him? But now, now he realized that the job wasn't about sterile numbers; that what Charlie did wasn't just about sketching out complicated equations on wipe off boards. "How can he do that and sleep at night?"

Don sighed. "What makes you think he sleeps?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Suzette. There's a discrepancy of 21,240. That's half the population of Culver City unaccounted for …"

"You know, before this came along, he was working on a project that discovered a cancer cluster in our mother's hometown. The cancer that killed her also killed twenty-nine other people in the same area."

"Charlie figured that out?" Radcliff was even more impressed now.

"Yeah. And he made sure someone knew about it." Don was proud of his brother. He wasn't about to try and hide it, not now, not anymore. Charlie had faced this cancer issue, the details of tens of thousands of deaths from horrible disaster **and** a threat against his life and had not gone stark raving mad, something Don couldn't swear to for himself. Oh, yeah, Don was definitely proud. But that didn't mean he wasn't worried.

"Not according to the data I got yesterday … No, uh, haven't been in today … Yeah, okay. I'll talk to you again tomorrow night and we'll go over it all again … Thanks, Suzette, you too. Bye."

"So, how's things going with Dr. Beauchamps?" Don asked as Charlie hung up the cell phone.

"Peachy. Just peachy," Charlie groaned as he pulled himself up off the floor. "I'm gonna get something to drink. You want anything, Agent Radcliff?"

Radcliff shook his head. "I'm good, thanks." He made as if to stand and follow Charlie into the kitchen but Don waved him off.

"So, Charlie, how are you doing?" Don asked as Charlie opened the fridge and pulled out the milk. "I mean really doing?" He clarified as Charlie opened his mouth to speak.

Charlie closed his mouth and sighed instead. "I'm okay. I'm worried about Dad."

"Yeah, well, Dad's fine. He's sleeping?"

"I think so. He was nodding off in his chair, I made him go upstairs."

"You should do the same, you know. You need to sleep, Charlie."

Charlie laughed. "Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

"Charlie …"

"It's okay, I'm good," Charlie assured him. But his body betrayed the truth. As he pulled a glass out of the cupboard, his shaking fingers lost their grip and the glass shattered on the floor.

"Eppes!"

Don could hear Radcliff calling from the living room. "It's okay. I dropped something," he called back.

"Shit," Charlie swore under his breath. He repeated the expletive several times to himself then moved for the utility closet. He needed to clean up the glass.

"No, I got it." Don already had the broom in his hand and waved Charlie away as he made quick work of the mess.

Charlie leaned against the counter and covered his face with his hands. So much for showing Don he was doing good. He'd managed to keep everyone convinced that he was holding up, but leave it to Don to be there when he gave himself away. Charlie pulled in several deep breaths and tried to center himself against the anxiety that was threatening to surface again. Truth be told, he was exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted, and it was getting harder and harder to keep himself controlled. He felt hands on his shoulders and he stiffened against the touch, but he didn't move.

"I mean it, man. You're on the edge and you know it. You need to sleep." Don's voice was soft, and so filled with concern Charlie didn't know whether to scream in frustration or cry with gratitude.

"I can't, Don. I've tried and I … I … I just can't. I keep thinking … I … I keep seeing …" He dropped his hands and looked at his brother, his eyes saying what he couldn't. "I just … can't."

Don's heart constricted at the fear in Charlie's eyes.

"Charlie. You're safe, Charlie. I've got two men outside, Radcliff and me inside. He can't get you here."

Charlie pulled away from his brother and drove his hands into his hair. "I hate this. I hate it! I feel like I'm a kid again and there's monsters under my bed and I hate feeling this way. I hate feeling out of control like I can't make sense of anything and I hate feeling like a coward and …"

Don grabbed his brother's shoulder, cutting off the rush of words. "Wait a minute, Charlie! Stop talking like that! You are not a coward. Being afraid does not make you a coward, do you hear me?"

"Didn't you hear me, Don? I'm afraid to go to sleep. I'm twenty-eight years old and I'm afraid," Charlie's voice broke, "to go to sleep. What does that make me if not a coward?"

Don stared into eyes that were bright with unshed tears. "It makes you," he told Charlie firmly, "a man who understands the position he's in, a man who knows the stakes. What you **need** to understand is that you are not alone, Charlie. You are not the only one who realizes that we are playing for keeps and you are **not** the only one who's afraid."

Charlie's eyes closed and a single tear slipped down his face. His breath hitched for a moment in his throat, and when he spoke it was so quiet Don barely heard the words. "I'm tired, Donny. I'm so tired."

Don pulled his brother into his arms and held him tight. "I know, buddy," he whispered back, his own voice none to steady. "I know. Me, too. But we can't keep this up. We can't do this to ourselves, to Dad."

"Don't worry about me." Alan spoke suddenly from the doorway. "It's you two I'm concerned about." He crossed over to his sons and put his arms around them both. "I will not stand by and watch you both self-destruct over this. We are a family and we'll get through this together. Do you understand me? Together."

Don recognized his father's tone and lifted his gaze to his father's. "What do you have in mind?"

"It's simple. Donny, you stay here and get some sleep. I sit with Charlie while he gets some sleep."

"What about you?" Charlie wondered. "When do you sleep?"

Alan shrugged. "Me? I'm retired, I can sleep all day if I want to."

Charlie mumbled something that neither of the other two caught. "What, Charlie?" his father asked.

"I can't sleep. I … I … my mind … it keeps … I keep seeing their faces. I keep seeing Bill's face."

"Well, it so happens I can help." Alan left his sons and retrieved a flat, black leather case from his coat pocket.

Charlie took one look at it and began to back away. "Dad, you didn't. Tell me you didn't."

"What's that? What didn't you do?" Don was clearly confused.

"I went to see your Uncle Paul today. I asked him to give me something that could help Charlie sleep."

Don still wasn't sure what the fuss was about. His uncle, Paul Wentworth, was a respected cardiac specialist at Rampart General. If he was willing to help, Don was all for it. "I'm sure it's okay, Charlie," he said soothingly, not sure what the issue was.

"No, it's not okay. It's definitely **not** okay, okay? What did you tell him this time? That I was freaking out over another dissertation? That I couldn't handle the pressure of getting another doctorate?"

"**Another** doctorate?" Don asked jokingly. "Charlie, how many do you have?"

"Counting the one from Cal Sci?"

Don's jaw dropped. "Seriously, you have more than one doctorate?"

Charlie shrugged. "Lots of people do, Don."

"Name five." He saw Charlie's mouth open to answer and cut him off with a raised finger. "That I've heard of," he quickly amended.

Charlie ignored him and avoided answering by pointing at his father. "What did you tell him, Dad?"

"I told him you were having trouble sleeping. I told him about the tsunami project and the cancer cluster research and I told him that you couldn't sleep. Believe me, he understood. He understands you better than you think, young man."

"You know I hate that." Charlie pointed to the case. "Why can't he just give out pills like everyone else?"

Alan unzipped the case and pulled out a small syringe. "Because they don't work as well. And they tend to wire you up instead of relax you."

Don frowned at the needle in his father's hand. "He gave you a loaded syringe?"

"He trusts me with it," Alan assured him. "Now, do we go with my idea or do we stand here all night?"

Charlie took another look at the sedative in his father's hand and heaved a sigh that was as much frustration as it was capitulation. He headed for the stairs, muttering to himself in what Don could swear was French. It didn't sound like anything he especially wanted translated. He shot a look at his father.

"Think he's been spending a little too much time with Dr. Beauchamps?" Alan ventured with a smile as he pocketed the sedative. "You can help yourself to sweats out of my drawer. The bed is all made up."

The elder Eppes followed the path his youngest took up the stairs and quietly knocked on the partially closed bedroom door. "Charlie?" He pushed the door open and found his son staring out the window at the dark garden below. Alan crossed to him and laid an arm across his shoulder. "I know you think you're weak for being afraid, Charlie, but you aren't. What you know, what you're going through would drive most men crazy. You are, to my mind, a very remarkable young man. And I would consider it a personal insult if you continue to challenge what I think by telling me otherwise."

Charlie closed his eyes and smiled slightly. "I wouldn't want to insult you."

"You ready?"

A deep sigh later Charlie nodded. He left the window and sat on the chair nearby. Without being asked, he rolled up the short sleeve of his tee shirt and waited patiently while Alan swabbed his arm with alcohol. He didn't feel the needle going in, not really, only a slight sting where the antiseptic got under the skin.

They'd done this before, but not in a long, long time. The frantic young man of his past was gone. Well, except for very recently, and Charlie wasn't glad to see him come back. It had taken him a long time to exorcise the demons of his genius, most of his teen years to be exact. But with the love and patience of his parents he'd done it. Don was gone for a lot of it, thankfully, but he'd seen enough to know that his little brother had often been troubled by bouts of anxiety and depression. That, coupled with a non-traditional teen life had made things difficult for a while. But they'd gotten through it. Together. And his father was right, they'd get through this, too. Together.

Charlie felt himself getting heavy and he realized that while he was lost in thought his father had turned down his bed.

"Come on, son. Let's get you settled in." Alan gently helped his son to his now unsteady feet and maneuvered him to the bed. With all the care in the world, he helped Charlie under the blankets and covered him up. "Comfortable?"

Charlie nodded and closed his eyes. They popped open again of their own accord as his body, still tight under the pressure of the circumstances, fought off the drugs that willed him to rest. "Dad?" His eyes sought the comforting features of his father as he turned down the lights.

"Yes, I'm right here."

"You'll stay, right? You'll stay with me?"

Alan pulled the comfortable chair over closer to Charlie's bed and then sat on the mattress beside his son. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away."

Charlie smiled at that. It was an old promise, one often made to a small boy who was afraid of the dark and the monsters under his bed.

"Now, I want you to close your eyes and go to sleep, Charlie. Alright?"

"Okay." Charlie's voice was quiet. The drugs were working quickly and his eyes slid shut. They opened again after a moment, and Alan realized that Charlie was still fighting the sleep he desperately needed. He took Charlie's hand in his one of his own and brushed the ever-unruly curls from his forehead.

Charlie smiled at him. "Mom used to do that."

Alan smiled back. "I know she always nagged you about your hair but she loved it. She said it was the one thing about you she couldn't predict."

Charlie's smile faded and his eyes grew troubled. "Dad …" He didn't finish. He didn't have the words to say what he'd been longing to say for almost a year. But Alan knew anyway.

"I know, son. I know. And your mother knew, too." Alan leaned over a bit so that he was very close. "I think you've punished yourself enough, Charlie. Your mother would never have wanted you to suffer this long. She would have never wanted you suffer at all. And your brother and I, we understand now. You need to let it go, Charlie. You need to let her rest. You need to let yourself rest. "

Charlie's father watched him wrestle with himself for a moment. Then Charlie closed his eyes and nodded. "Okay," he said softly.

Alan rested a hand against his son's cheek. "Goodnight, Charlie. I love you."

Charlie's eyes didn't open again. "Love you, too, Dad," he mumbled sleepily.

Alan watched him as he gave in to his body's demands for rest. Before long, Charlie's breathing was deep and even and Alan gave a sigh.

"Good call, Dad." Don's voice was hushed and filled with as much relief as Alan felt.

"It's nice to know that I can do something to help out with this mess. It's not easy just sitting by, you know."

Don came in and sat in the chair Alan had pulled up by the bed. "I know how you feel. But, please believe me, Dad, I will do everything I can to keep Charlie safe."

"I never doubted it, Don. I never doubted it. But now, you need some rest."

"Yeah, I'm gonna turn in. I just needed to bring Radcliff up to speed. He'll be looking in every now and then, and if you need a break just let him know, or wake me up …"

"That I will not do. You can't give this case your best if you're tired. Just do me one favor? I forgot my book. Would you mind sitting here for a minute while I get it?"

"No problem." Don propped his feet up on the bed and leaned back in the chair. He'd changed his clothes and the baggy sweats engulfed him in soft warmth. It felt wonderful. His mind began to unwind as he let himself relax. His eyes were drawn to Charlie and, in the dim glow of the hallway's accent lighting, Don studied his brother as he slept. He was drawn into memories of Charlie as a child, crawling into bed with him in the middle of the night because of some bad dream or other.

"I won't let anything hurt you, buddy," he'd told him. "Don't you know? Monsters are afraid of big brothers." Don certainly hoped that was true of the real life monster they were dealing with. Because he couldn't bear the thought that he might miss something and Charlie would actually have to face this psycho.

With that thought, any measure of relaxation Don had achieved in the past few minutes was immediately gone and he wanted, needed, to get it back. He had spent too many hours with this draining tension pulling at his strength and it was time to shut it down, if only for a short time. Closing his eyes, Don deliberately banished the demons that had haunted him from the beginning of this case. He refused to see Charlie's face superimposed over the crime scene photos. He refused to allow himself to picture Charlie dead. He began to implement Terry's suggestion that he think of a warm, quiet, safe place and picture himself there. After a moment, Don began to relax again.

Don was still in the chair when Alan returned with his book and a cup of fresh coffee. He fetched a blanket from his room and covered him up, hoping that he wouldn't wake him. Then he stood back and allowed himself to enjoy the sight. Tonight, he would stand guard over his sons and make sure that they got what rest they could. Because only God knew what tomorrow might bring.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**January 15**

**7:36 am**

"David."

Sinclair flipped open his notebook. "We went back over everything. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. There were no witnesses. No identifying fingerprints. Nothing that would leave DNA. The only other thing we got was through Dr. Minikoff downstairs. He reviewed all the coroner's reports and he says that the perpetrator beat the victims in such a way as to cause maximum pain before death."

"Torture?"

"Something like that."

"For what? For information?"

"Or a personal vendetta."

"What are you thinking, Terry?"

"Something Charlie said," Terry clarified as she shifted and leaned back in her chair. "He told us that membership was very limited and that nineteen out of every twenty applicants was turned down."

"You're thinking it was someone who was turned down?"

Terry shrugged one shoulder. "Could be. I mean, whoever did this is smarter than your average killer. Think about it, every serial killer leaves clues as to his identity sooner or later or makes a mistake in his arrogance. This guy is very careful. Almost too careful."

"He had to have left something behind. Something we aren't getting. If I'm learning anything from working with Charlie it's that there is always something you don't see, something you don't think is there but is. Something that's only too obvious if you can only find it."

"Minikoff also said he can give us a physical sketch of the suspect, it's not perfect but it's a start," David added.

"What did he come up with?"

"He's guessing male. 5' 11" to 6'2", right handed, strong upper body, not quite a body builder type but close."

"Like a football player? An athlete?"

"Yeah."

"Anything else?"

"Broad shoulders."

"Broad shoulders, how'd he get that?"

David hesitated and glanced quickly at Terry before speaking. He's not gonna like the answer, he was telling her with his eyes. "The spacing of the one two punches to the kidneys."

The two agents saw Don blanch and were quick to assure him they would do everything they could to find whoever was behind this.

"We'll run it through again, Don. We'll find something."

"Thanks, guys."

"How's Charlie?"

"He's … scared. So's my dad. Terry, is that new surveillance roster worked out?"

"Yes, it's all set."

"Who's on now?"

"Keith and he's on until 7:00 tonight."

"Good. That's good."

David and Terry exchanged glances again before closing in on the other agent in a confidential knot. "Don," David spoke first. "We … the whole team … we want you to know that this has gone beyond duty."

"It's personal now, Don," Terry told him, her eyes never leaving his. "Charlie's one of us."

"Yeah, and we take care of our own. You and Charlie, you're family. We won't let you down."

**4:45 pm**

Don put his head in his hands and leaned against his knees. Three days. It had been three days since Charlie had dropped the bombshell that he was the next target of the Omega Tau killer. Don almost laughed. They hadn't been able to nickname this case, like they had so many of the others, until they'd found the link. Three days since he'd been able to eat more than a bite or two at a time. And the five hours of sleep he'd gotten last night was quickly wearing off. He was reaching the end of his physical endurance and he knew it. He could feel exhaustion creeping into his bones and would have given anything to be able to close his eyes for a solid eight hours.

But what if Charlie needed him in those eight hours? What if the killer decided to strike while Don slept? He knew it was irrational but he couldn't help himself. Charlie was his brother and his safety precluded everything else right now. It didn't matter that there was round the clock protection being provided. It didn't matter that they couldn't find a shred of a clue anywhere in six case files. All that mattered was that they found this guy and locked him up for good. When that happened, Don promised himself he could sleep for a week.

His cell phone rang. Don had tossed it onto his desk earlier and he looked at it, now, out of one bloodshot eye. He reached for it, stretching as he stood up. "Eppes …What? …. Are you ….? …. I'll be right there … What? …. Okay, will do."

He snapped the phone closed and motioned for David Sinclair to follow him. "May," he called to the groups' secretary as he grabbed his jacket, "we're out."

"Location?"

"Century City. Got a call about the Aqueduct Counterfeiters. Seems they may be at it again."

Don headed for the door with David Sinclair on his heels. Jack Carlson cut him off before he could reach for the handle.

"What's the matter, Eppes? Charlie," he sneered the name, "need a milkshake? Or does he just need you to hold his hand while he crosses the street?"

Don gritted his teeth and willed himself to ignore the other agent but David Sinclair had had enough.

"Okay, Carlson, that's it. You got a problem with Charlie, you tell it to me and I'll be glad to correct your ass six ways to Sunday!"

"David. Calm down. Just let it go. Let it go."

Carlson cackled. "Oh, hey, looks like Charlie's got himself a bodyguard now. Nice, Sinclair. You joining the geek group, now, too?"

Sinclair would have loved to punch the Carlson's lights out at that moment but Don was pulling on his sleeve.

"I said let it go. I mean it. Come on."

David allowed himself to be pulled out the door but his eyes never left Carlson's. When the heavy glass had closed off the jeering laughter he let out an angry roar. "One day I am going to teach that man to mind his manners. I swear to God, Don, I will take him down."

"When this case is closed, you are welcome to do it. But for now I need you."

"Are you saying I can't take him?" David was deeply offended that his abilities as the office boxing champion were being questioned.

"You'd have your hands full is all I'm saying. That you can out-finesse him, I have no doubt. But I've seen him in the gym and he's no lightweight."

"Yeah, well lightweight, heavyweight, or middleweight, I'm gonna kick his ass. Charlie is as good as they come and I'm tired of listening to Carlson demean him." David Sinclair couldn't understand why Don didn't stick up for his brother himself and he asked him about it. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me! But I'm not doing Charlie or myself any good by provoking him. And to be honest with you, David, Charlie and I have been putting up with shit like this for years. It's nothing new. It doesn't make it any less irritating, but it's nothing new. And we agreed a long time ago that we would deal with it." He unlocked the black SUV and they climbed in. "I mean, when you have someone in the family like Charlie, it's no picnic, for anyone. Not that I'm not proud of him, I am. I think Charlie's abilities are amazing. It's just that … you get a lot of flak from people who don't understand. And believe me, David, there are **a lot** of people who don't understand."

Sinclair sighed heavily as they pulled into traffic. "Yeah, I guess you've got a point. So you want to tell me where we're really going?"

"You figured that one out, did you?"

"Well, as an FBI agent I have developed acute powers of observation. And my observation tells me that Century City is in the other direction."

"Excellent work, Agent Sinclair. We are going to the Skyline Building."

"Wunderkind Software?"

"Terry says there's something there we need to see. Something that she wants kept quiet."

**5:15pm**

"William Michaels was a security freak. He was under the impression that someone was after the new educational applications he was working on and had revamped the building's security four times in the past two years." Terry filled them in on what she'd found out while Alison Van der Pool, Wunderkind's security chief, uploaded a DVD onto a computer. Terry's voice was quiet and Don could tell she was extremely tense. Whatever had been uncovered had rattled her for sure.

"Was he justified in his suspicions?"

"Absolutely," Terry told him. "Attempted industrial espionage is commonplace for a company of this nature. Five attempts to hack into the program vault here have occurred in the last year alone."

"Michaels was always looking for new technology, technology we develop here on premises," Van der Pool informed him. "The last thing he added were remote sensor cameras that are recessed into the walls, rendering them invisible to the naked eye and undetectable by electronic monitoring."

"When was this done? And why didn't we have the information before now?" Don wondered.

Van Der Pool turned away from her monitor and faced him. "It was done two days before his death. But the equipment wasn't scheduled to go online with the main security system until today. However, Michaels was never one to let a project go unfinished, especially one he was hot about. I should have known he'd get into the camera system and bring what he considered the most sensitive area online."

"What area was that?" David asked.

"The executive suite. The first images began recording at 3:30 pm two days ago, the day he was killed. But I didn't find it when we went over the initial security video for the area because I didn't know we had it. I didn't discover it until this morning when I was backing up the system data for the week. He'd wired the cameras to record directly onto the mainframe instead of recording to the video imaging system."

Don felt a surge of energy flow through his body. "Show me," was all he had to say.

"Wait." Terry got up and made absolutely certain the door to the security viewing room was closed. "You swept the room?"

Van der Pool nodded. "Twice, once with standard equipment, once with our own version. This room is clean. But, just to be sure…" She flipped a switch on the console to her left and a slight humming sound filled the room. She turned the FBI gents. "It's a signal jamming device," she explained. "No audio or video will be discernable as long as it's on."

Don looked questioningly at his female agent. "What's up?"

"You'll see."

The four people turned their eyes to the monitor, where video images were beginning to play. With several clicks of a computer mouse, Van der Pool forwarded the images until the clock at the corner of the screen read 7:40pm. There was a moment of William David Michaels sitting at his desk, and then someone entered the room. For the next half hour, the tiny cameras captured his murder from six different angles in hi-resolution graphics. In every third frame, the killer's face was plainly visible. Don stared, certain the first couple of times he saw it that he was imagining things. Terry must have been watching his face, for when she realized that he had come to grips with who the murderer was, she began to speak.

"I accessed his file from here, using a secure connection. He was labeled as 'gifted' at the age of twelve but went through regular schooling, albeit in accelerated classes. There is no mention of his having applied to Omega Tau except for one statement at the end of the psych portion of his employment profile, in response to the 'Have you ever been discriminated against' question, where he states, quote, "Yes. When I was sixteen I was blackballed by a fraternity for gifted young people because I wasn't smart enough for them. That made a huge impact on me and someday they will realize that rejecting me was a poor course of action." When asked what he meant, he went on to say that he meant they would realize he could have been a valuable asset to their group and the interviewer let it go at that."

"I can't believe this." Don was stunned. "How did we… I mean, how did we miss this?"

"There is nothing at all that would link him to the case." Terry answered. "But he used his influence to get to his victims. I'm guessing he used his credentials to get close to them, then killed them."

"We've gotta get to Charlie. He could move at any time. He knows I'm out of the office."

"But he thinks you're in Century City," David reminded him. "We are a lot closer from here than we would be from there. We can be there in half an hour."

Don was already reaching for the door. "Let's move. Terry, call Keith and give him the lowdown. Make sure he keeps his guard up."

"Will do. I'll wrap up here and meet you there."

"Thanks. David, you're with me. Let's go."

Terry dialed Keith cell from the secure line she'd used earlier to phone Don and explained what they knew. "I know, it's a lot to take in. Consider him armed and dangerous, Keith. Also, Don wants you to secure your position at the Eppes home and go into lock down until he gets there… You're where? … Damn. Where's Charlie? … Okay, listen to me. I want you to find them **now** … What do you mean the power just went off? … No, it's okay. I'm not outside, I didn't know there was storm. Just find them and observe. Don't make a move without backup unless you have to, okay? Don is familiar with the layout so just let us know where you are … Keith? … Keith? Dammit!"

Terry slammed down the disconnect and furiously dialed another number. "David, it's Terry, listen to me. They're not at the house, they're at the campus. I was just on the phone with Keith and he said the power in the building went off ... I know about the storm but listen! Keith's line went dead as we were speaking. Do you understand me? … Exactly. Charlie is alone in the math complex with Jack Carlson."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**5:50 pm**

By the time he'd left the house with Keith Wilson to retrieve the data he needed at his office on campus, Charlie had had several days to get used to the idea of a bodyguard, and had gotten pretty good at ignoring the fact that someone had to follow him everywhere. Knowing that he was uncomfortable about the whole situation, Don had chosen people Charlie knew to do the one-on-one bodyguard work, and Charlie found Agent Wilson relatively easy to get along with. He'd gotten to know him through his work with Don's team at the Bureau and, unlike some of the other agents, he treated Charlie like a normal person instead of a freak or worse, Don's little brother.

They'd been discussing baseball, a topic outside of math on which Charlie could converse and felt comfortable with. He'd spent enough years watching Don play that he knew a lot about the game. And Keith seemed genuinely interested in the statistical probabilities of triple plays and how it was that Charlie was able to predict the way a player's swing would go by the way he stood at bat. Okay, so it wasn't exactly a topic outside of math but it was better than waxing poetic about Euler circuits and Fibonacci numbers. All said, it was going well, until they pulled into the parking lot.

Thunder boomed in the distance as they left the car and lightning flashed in bright streaks across the sky. The smell of impending rain was heavy in the air. It was getting cool fast. Charlie rolled down the sleeves of his white button up shirt and silently wished he'd brought a jacket. In light of the breaking weather, the two men quickly made their way through the growing darkness toward the math building where Charlie's office was located. At the entrance to the building, someone was waiting for them.

"Yo, Wilson. I called for you at the house but Mr. Eppes said you'd be coming here."

"Carlson." The contempt in Keith's voice was veiled but still present. None of Don's team liked the agent. None of the other agents in the office did either.

Jack Carlson turned his ice blue gaze on Charlie. "So, Dr. Eppes. I hear through the grapevine that you're next on the hit parade."

"Yeah," Charlie gave him a fake smile. "Lucky me, huh? Now if you'll excuse us, we have something to do."

"Actually, I need to convey a message to Agent Wilson here. You need to call in, someone left an urgent message for you at the desk."

Wilson frowned at him. "Why didn't they just call on my cell?"

"Lightning's been interfering in the signal." Above them, another jagged streak crossed the sky, as if to illustrate the truth of what he was saying. "They were working on fixing the problem when I left, so it might be okay by now. Why don't you try and call in and I'll escort Dr. Eppes to his destination."

"I, uh, I think I can find my destination just fine, thanks anyway," Charlie informed the agent coolly and began to walk off.

Carlson grabbed his arm and held on. "Your brother said you were to be guarded at all times," he said condescendingly. "See, you're a valuable asset, now, so we've got to keep an eye on you."

Charlie's steady gaze held Carlson's as he shook off the man's less than gentle touch. "I'm sure I'll manage," he insisted coldly.

"He's right Charlie, those were Don's orders," Keith regretfully reminded him. "Look, why don't you go ahead. I'll call in and meet up with you in a minute, okay?" Keith knew that Charlie was not comfortable with Agent Carlson. Hell, no one was, but he had to check in and Carlson was, after all, an FBI agent, even if he wasn't directly assigned to this case.

He watched Carlson follow Charlie down the hallway and then turn left, putting them out his sight. Then he flipped open his phone and prepared to call the office. It rang before he could even dial.

**5:55 pm**

It had been so easy to ditch Wilson, Carlson gloated to himself as he maneuvered through the dark hallways of the Cal Sci math complex. The moron had bought the story of the urgent message back at the office. Too bad the agent's cell phone had rung where he could hear it. He'd had to double back and take care that he wouldn't be a problem. But now he was faced with a new problem. The FBI was onto him and he didn't have as much time as he'd planned to carry out this last phase of his California Initiative, as he liked to call it. Still, it would take Eppes and Sinclair at least an hour to reach him from Century City and that would be plenty of time to deal with Dr. Charles Eppes.

Carlson was glad he'd taken the time to scope out the building before he'd made the impromptu decision to move up his time frame. Negotiating the dark halls was easy now that he knew exactly where Charlie's office was and where all the exits were. He could be in and out without any problems at all. Jack Carlson almost laughed out loud. Man, this was going to be fun!

Charlie unlocked his office door and flipped the wall switch just as the whole building went dark. The battery-operated alarm clock on his desk flashed 5:56. The unease that had been building in him since he'd arrived on campus uncoiled in his gut and sent tentacles up his spine. Because of the delicate computer equipment and state of the art environmental engineering systems in the newer buildings, lightning surge protectors and failsafe generators had been installed. The only way to cut power to the building was to turn it off at the main electrical panel in the engineering room.

Carlson had said he forgot to tell Keith something and had gone back to the entrance. Going back to the entrance took him past the engineering room. Charlie's mouth went dry and he fought for enough air to breathe while his mind began to process information at an alarming speed.

Carlson was the killer. Carlson had most likely incapacitated or killed Keith Wilson. He and Carlson were the only two people in the building. Carlson was somewhere in the darkness. Carlson was going to try and kill him.

In. Out. In. Out. Charlie knew he was still breathing. He focused on that, focused on something he could use to ground himself because if he didn't the terror would keep him frozen in place. You can do this, he told himself. You can do this. After a moment, he knew he actually could. In the past few days, after the initial shock of everything had worn off, Charlie found that there was a thread of steel in him, the same steel that ran through Don and his father. It was deep and strong and he would be damned if he would roll over and let someone like Jack Carlson take him without a fight.

The clock on the desk flashed 5:58 now. He'd stood there for two whole minutes. It was time to leave. It was time to run. But a whisper of movement behind him told him that his time was gone.

**6:00 pm**

"We want CHP, LAPD, everything. Tell them we've got an agent down, a victim and an armed and dangerous killer with FBI training in the building. Advise them that building is without power either due to the storm or a deliberate act. Don wants them on that building like flies on a picnic, you got it? Have an ambulance standing by and give us all the back-up from our office you can muster." David shot out commands fast and clear as Don navigated the lumbering SUV through traffic.

"Tell them to go in silent!" Don barked as he ran another red light.

"They need to go in silent," David relayed. "They want our ETA."

Don turned the wheel and they careened around a corner. "Twenty minutes. Twenty goddamn minutes."

A police cruiser with it's lights flashing and sirens wailing cut in front of the SUV and began to clear out the traffic ahead. "Make that fifteen!" Don amended, his relief at the appearance of the requested escort clear in his voice.

"Fifteen minutes. Use this line if you need to reach us before then." Sinclair slapped the cell phone cover closed and pulled out his gun, making sure he had a full clip loaded and ready to go. Without being asked, he reached over and did the same for Don's pistol.

"We'll make it, Don. We'll make it."

"So help me, God, David, if he lays one hand on Charlie …"

"I'm with you, man. I'm with you."

"Charlie's can't handle this. He's not equipped to deal with a one-on-one, hand-to-hand dangerous situation."

David shook his head and cut Don off. "Charlie can handle this just fine. He's smart. And he's a lot stronger than you think. Besides, he's your kid brother. Didn't you teach him how to fight?"

"Yeah, I mean, I tried. Basically, he was so much smaller than everyone else I taught him how to fight dirty. He never had to use it as far as I know. But, that was years ago. He won't … he won't remember."

"You taught him? He'll remember." David was absolutely certain.

"How can you be so sure? I mean, how can you know that for sure?"

"Charlie learned everything from books. What you taught him, you can't learn from a book. Besides, you're his big brother. He'll remember."

**6:01 pm**

The stunning blow to his left cheek sent Charlie spinning into his office. He came up hard when the right side of his face slammed against the desk. The edge of the desk sliced deep into the skin above his eye and blood ran down the side of his face; he could feel the sticky, wet heat of it against his skin.

"Hello, there, Dr. Eppes!" Carlson's voice said cheerfully from overhead. "I'm glad I caught you during office hours."

A booming laugh filled the small room and Charlie winced at the sound.

Suddenly, he was hauled upward by the front of his shirt and Carlson's fist slammed against the bleeding wound. Charlie would have cried out as the already abused flesh was brutally bruised, but Carlson chose that second to slam another blow into his midsection. The air left Charlie's lungs in a rush. Before he could recover, a fist hit him in the chest. The cracking sound of his ribs giving way was as loud as thunder in his ears. Carlson shook him, hard, and he silently screamed as the jagged ends ground together.

"I'm really glad I have this opportunity to speak privately with you, Dr. Eppes. A man of your obvious intellect and academic stature makes for a fascinating conversationalist."

A hard blow to his mouth accented the last word of Carlson's sentence and Charlie was spinning around again as the strength of it knocked him off his feet. He sprawled face down on his desk. The hit had driven his teeth into his lips and cheek and his mouth was filling with blood. Reflexively, he spat it out.

Through the agony in his chest, Charlie fought to breathe. He managed a short couple of gasps before Carlson struck again, this time with both fists into the unprotected region of his lower back. An uncontrollable cry of pain robbed Charlie of the precious air he'd managed to pull in and he began to feel as if he were suffocating.

"Aw! Having a bit of trouble are we? Well, I'll give you a second to catch your breath. I would hate to have to end our interview too soon." Carlson was smiling. Charlie could hear it in his voice. "You see, Dr. Eppes, I can be just as altruistic as the next man. I have all the qualities of a fine man of learning and education, a man like yourself."

Charlie tried to ignore him and the pounding in his head. Now that he had had a chance to pull some oxygen into his tortured lungs, his instincts were able to catch up. Mindlessly, his hands scrabbled desperately over the desktop in search of anything he might be able to use as a weapon.

"I could have been a big man like you, Dr. Eppes, had I had the chance. But you see I wasn't given the opportunities you were. I wasn't acceptable. Do you know what it's like to be unacceptable?"

Charlie's hand closed over the alarm clock. It wasn't very big, but it was old and it was heavy.

"Answer me!" Carlson's hands pulled Charlie around to face him and Charlie used the impetus of the movement to give him speed. He slammed the alarm clock into the side of Carlson's face.

Carlson yelled and lifted his hands to the injury, releasing Charlie in the process. Charlie hurled himself toward the doorway but Carlson's hand snaked out and caught his left arm in a vice-like grip. He pulled Charlie violently backwards but Charlie resisted. Carlson's other hand reached up and in the strobe effect of the lightning outside Charlie saw the flat, tight hand descend. He struggled harder but in the instant the light faded Carlson delivered a viscious karate chop across Charlie's extended forearm. The bones snapped with a crack and Charlie screamed.

"You little shit!" Carlson yelled as he pinned Charlie up against the wall. "Did you think you could get away? Huh?"

Fingers like iron dug deep into Charlie's throat. The little vision that Charlie had was beginning to dim around the edges. He knew if he didn't do something right now, he was going to die.

"I'm smart, too. Smarter than you now because I'm gonna kill your sorry ass and then I'm gonna kill all the rest of you Omega Tau bastards! I wasn't good enough for you! Why wasn't I good enough for you?!"

Charlie's right hand came up against Carlson's fingers in a helpless reflexive gesture. Everything was turning gray. In a sudden moment of absolute clarity, a hidden memory bubbled to the surface of Charlie's consciousness. He could hear Don's voice as clear as a bell.

"_When you're smaller than the other guy, Charlie, and he's got you up against a wall, there's no such thing as a fair fight. You use every dirty trick in the book. Even the one guys are never supposed to use against other guys."_

"_Won't that make me a wimp, Donny? Won't that make me fight like a girl?"_

"_If someone is hurting you, Charlie, and you can't fight back, you do what you can. And then you run. There's no shame in running, buddy. Not when you know you can't win."_

"What are you going to do now, smart boy?" Carlson gloated as he felt Charlie's struggles get weaker and weaker.

For the last twenty years, Charlie's chief mode of transportation had been his bicycle. To school, from school, around campus - he rode it everywhere. A lot of the areas around Cal Sci were dotted with small hills. This exercise had made Charlie's legs strong. Very strong. In a fraction of a second, Charlie calculated the distance to his target and the maximum force he would need. Then, with a burst of strength, he drove his knee hard into Carlson's groin.

It worked like a charm. Carlson fell like a rock, twitching, to the floor. Charlie caved to his knees, gasping for air. Still, he knew it wouldn't be long before Carlson had recovered enough to try again. As soon as he could manage it, Charlie hauled himself upright, and stumbled into the hall. He overestimated the distance to the other side and stumbled into the wall. His forehead bumped against the cold tile and Charlie moaned. He reached up and tried to wipe away some of the blood with his good hand but it was no use, the flow had not slowed down enough for him to make a difference. Besides, his eye was swelling shut and he couldn't see out of it anyway. Knowing that seconds could mean the difference between living and dying, Charlie willed himself to move. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he cradled his useless left arm against his screaming torso and pushed himself off the wall. Pausing once in a while to steady himself, Charlie wove an unsteady path down the dark hallway, continuing on until even the bloodstained shirt he wore was swallowed by the gloom.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**6:07 pm**

Charlie leaned heavily against the metal framing. He was in the south wing, the part of the building that was being renovated. Long sheets of plastic hung from the ceiling, dust barriers designed to keep the rest of the building clean. His one good eye had adjusted to the dark enough that he could make out the shapes of saws and equipment ahead.

In his gut, Charlie knew that he was going to have to do this alone. No one was coming to his rescue; there was no way anyone could get there in time. There would be no Don to rout the neighborhood bullies or schoolyard thugs this time. He was on his own with only his extremely fuzzy mind and a broken body to use against a madman who would not relent until one of them was dead. In the long walk down the hallway Charlie had already decided it would not be him.

A long flash of lightning illuminated the room clearly and, in that instant, Charlie saw his opportunity. It wouldn't be easy in the very few minutes he had, but the alternative was unacceptable. He only hoped that the diversion he'd created fooled Carlson long enough for him to put his plan into action.

Charlie moved away from the supporting beam, clamping his jaw shut to stifle the outcry of pain that bubbled up in his throat as the ends of his broken bones ground together. Stumbling more and more often as he walked, he made it to the corner of the room. He measured two long lengths of telephone cable off a long roll and cut them using wire cutters that had been carelessly left behind. Maneuvering the cutters one-handed was almost impossible and he lost precious seconds trying to force his uncooperative fingers to work.

Once the lines were cut, he tied the ends off through a hole in one of the metal struts that framed what looked like a large closet. He then tied a small chunk of scrap two-by-four to the other end of each wire. Squinting, desperate to make this work on as few tries as possible, Charlie threw the lines one at a time; the first over the heavier overhead beam fifteen feet ahead. The second he tossed across the beam closest to the wall. Luck was with him; it took only one try for the first, and three tries for the second. By then Charlie was breathing hard and sweating. Still, he didn't dare rest. Time was running out and his hardest task was yet to come.

**6:08 pm**

Don careened into the Cal Sci faculty lot and slammed the car into park. Barely taking time to turn off the engine, he rushed into the knot of police officers and agents that were waiting at the entrance. David was right behind him. Keith saw them coming and, tossing aside the ice pack he'd been holding to his head, he left the paramedic next to him and came forward.

"You okay?" Don asked in genuine concern.

"He got me from behind. I never heard him coming. Don, I'm sorry …"

"Don't be, it's not your fault. What's the situation now?" Don nodded his thanks to the uniformed officer next to him and grabbed the offered flashlight. He headed into the dark building at just under a run, with Keith and David at his side.

"Hey!" the paramedic called. "I'm not done with you …"

His protests fell on deaf ears as Keith filled Don in on the happenings of the last few minutes. "LAPD is in the building along with some of our guys. They just got to Charlie's office. There are signs that some kind of fight definitely took place but there's no sign of Charlie or Carlson."

They passed the electrical room and Don saw two or three DWP people working by flashlight. "Power?"

"Not sure when," Keith informed him. "Carlson sabotaged the main breakers. They're trying to see if they can reroute."

"Any ideas where they've gone?" David asked.

"Cops inside say they have an idea but it didn't pan out. They waited to pursue it further when they heard you'd arrived."

Don stopped just short of the turn to Charlie's office. "Alright, Keith, listen. I want you to coordinate efforts outside. I want this campus completely shut off; no one in, no one out, got it? Anything even twitches, I want to know about it. David, you're with me."

"Right." Keith took the flashlight David had grabbed and headed back the way they came.

Don took a second to steel himself against the panic that was boiling in his gut and then turned the corner. LAPD had set up some battery-operated lights. They shone inside Charlie's office and illuminated the hallway for fifty feet in either direction.

A uniformed officer stepped forward when he saw the two men approach. "Ted Daniels, LAPD," he announced.

"Eppes and Sinclair, FBI."

Daniels frowned. "Eppes?" He glanced at the nameplate by the door.

"My brother," was all Don needed to say.

The officer nodded in understanding. "Lemme show you what I got. We can see that something definitely took place here in the office. You can see stuff scattered all over. We also found pieces of what looks like an alarm clock on the floor. There are traces of blood on the sharp edges but we don't know whose. There's also blood on the edge and top of the desk. Quite a bit of it. Then we found this." He led them back into the hallway and pointed to a spot on the wall across from the door. A large bloody smear marred the white tile. Next to it was a bloody handprint.

Don stared at the image and forced himself not to react. He would not allow himself to dwell on the fact that this was most likely Charlie's blood he was seeing. He would not allow himself to dwell on the fact that his little brother was seriously hurt and alone somewhere in this building. He needed to concentrate on what needed to be done. He needed to concentrate on finding Carlson. He needed to concentrate on finding Charlie.

"These handprints," Daniels was telling them, "continue at intervals down the hall and into the adjoining corridor. We followed them but then they stop and there's no sign that anyone is in there. We've been searching for the past few minutes but have come up with nothing."

"Show me," Don ordered, his voice hard and brittle.

Daniels led them on a long march past gleaming walls that were intermittently smeared with crimson stains.

He rested there. Don's analytical mind was going over every new detail as it came along. And there. The handprints were getting closer together, it was becoming harder for Charlie to keep moving.

At a T-intersection of hallways, Daniels turned right. Ahead was a glass-enclosed passageway that joined the math wing with the engineering wing. Don could see flashlights bobbing in the different classrooms ahead.

But instead of following Daniels, Don stopped. Something was wrong here. He could feel it.

"Don?" David asked, turning towards him. He recognized the look on his team leaders' face. "You got something?"

Don didn't answer right away. Instead he went back around the corner and studied the grisly marks again. "This doesn't make sense." He gestured to the wall. "You see here, Charlie's resting more and more often. He doesn't have the strength to manage this whole corridor without stopping. He wouldn't have been able to make the distance without leaving another mark."

Don shone his flashlight around the area. There was the one clear handprint in the right hand turn and then nothing. Trying another tactic, Don turned his beam to the floor. Again, there was nothing.

"Charlie didn't go this way," he announced with absolute certainty. "It's a ruse. The handprints are a ruse."

He turned to the left and focused the light in that direction. The walls were clean of any marks. He tried the floor again and slowly moved forward. Small spatters of blood marred the floor parallel to the wall. Don had found Charlie's trail.

**6:10 pm**

Jack Carlson could not wipe the smug grin off his face. If that stupid college professor had thought to outwit him he had thought wrong. A child could have figured out the false trail Eppes had left and he was no child. I will have you, Dr. Eppes, Carlson gloated in his mind as he hobbled down the hallway. You will die as all your Omega Tau buddies died and then I will leave California. And one day, when all thought of me has faded, I'll come back and get the others. And no one will be able to stop me. Not you; not your piss-ant, holier than thou brother; not even the fucking FBI.

A laugh bubbled up in Carlson's throat and he clapped a hand over his mouth. No use in giving himself away. He was close. Very, very close. A long curtain of heavy, clear rubber strips appeared out of the darkness ahead. He scanned the strips with his penlight and sneered. One of them had a dark smear across it, right about head level for Eppes. Carlson pushed through the barrier and pulled his gun. It wasn't his standard MO, he knew, but he wasn't about to let Eppes get away again. If he had to revise his method, he would. He was flexible. He was diverse. And so long as Eppes was dead in the end, he would forgo the bone deep satisfaction he felt when watching the intelligence drain from the eyes of his victims while he crushed their tracheas.

Charlie tied off the last of the telephone cables and straightened up. His task had made him dizzy and blood pounded in his ears. He wanted to reach up and wipe the sweat off his forehead but he knew that would only reopen the slowly congealing head wound. Unable to hold himself upright, Charlie turned around and leaned his back against the wall. A light flashed in his eyes and the shadow of a man emerged from the darkness. _He's here…_ was all Charlie's mind could register. Before he could finish the thought there was a crash of thunder and a spike of white-hot agony blossomed in his chest. Charlie couldn't help himself, he screamed as his body convulsed with the impact.

"Hello, Dr. Eppes," Carlson said cheerfully. "As you can see, I've found you."

Charlie felt himself slide downward as his already unsteady legs gave out beneath him.

Carlson watched him fall and holstered his gun, finally allowing himself to laugh. "Why, Dr. Eppes, you've gotten yourself trapped in a corner. How convenient." He looked around at the half-built room Charlie had hidden in. There was only one way to reach the professor, only one way in or out. "You've certainly made it much easier for me."

"If you take … one more step," Charlie rasped out hoarsely, barely able to speak through his swelling throat and the crippling pain in his chest, "I'll kill you."

Whatever Carlson had expected Charlie to say, it certainly wasn't that. "You're joking. I mean, honestly, Dr. Eppes, what are you going to do? Bleed on me?"

Charlie's dark eyes never left Carlson's icy ones. "I mean it."

Carlson smiled then, an ugly smile full of hate and the promise of pain. He began to walk forward, anticipating this one last death. "Okay, smart boy, do your worst."

Charlie's right hand reached up and he grabbed one of the wires. "I'm sorry," he gasped painfully. "I warned you." With that, Charlie pulled.

For a split second, Carlson's instincts managed to override his madness. He realized in that instant that he had walked into a perfectly executed trap and there was no escape. The heavy cinderblock was falling from the steel framed ceiling in a delicate arc. Time slowed down. His brain registered that it did not spin, but that one solid side was hurtling forward on a collision course with his head.

Charlie couldn't look away. He had to be sure he hit the mark. If he missed, he wanted to face death head-on, for he knew that if his plan failed, he would die. He watched as Carlson realized too late that he was in danger. He watched as the stone block fell from its anchoring point. He watched as it hit Carlson point blank, heard the dull thwack as it connected with his skull. He watched as the man who'd murdered some of the brightest men of a generation fell gracelessly to the floor, his face a bloody mass of shattered bone.

Only when it was clear that Carlson wouldn't move again, did Charlie close his eyes.

**6:09**

With David on his right, and a small phalanx of officers behind him, Don started stealthily down the left hand corridor. Charlie was somewhere ahead, he knew it. He could feel it in his gut. And then, in a spine-tingling second of absolute clarity that he would review again and again when it was over, Don heard Charlie's voice in his head. _He's here_. Thunder crashed above them and the sound was deafening. As it faded, Charlie's scream echoed down the hall.

**6:10**

Jack Carlson could feel the blood that leaked from his ear. It tickled as it ran down his neck. The feel of it brought him out of his contemplation of the sparkling white shafts of light that pulsated around him. He knew, in the recesses of his dimming memory, that he should be dead. The stone block should have killed him instantly, or rendered him unconscious at the very least. But it had not been so. Instead, he was lying on the floor experiencing a sensation so intense it could not begin to be classified simply as pain.

As the seconds ticked by, he became aware of the fact that he was fading. His brain processed the fact that he could not move the left side of his body, that his skull was shattered, that blood was rapidly filling his mouth and bubbling back into his sinuses, and that he was helpless do anything but lie here and wait for death.

It wasn't fair! Charlie Eppes was nothing compared to him! It was Jack Carlson's genius that had outsmarted all the law enforcement in the state. It was **his** genius that had left no trail, no evidence. It was **his** genius that had tracked down and shown those high and mighty brainiacs that he was superior, that he was stronger, that he was smarter. To end like this wasn't fair. It wasn't right. It wasn't his idea of justice. Without consciously intending to do so, he moved his right hand. He experimented with the fingers and the arm and discovered that he still had control of this one limb and it occurred to him that this one limb could be his salvation. It would give him one last chance to show that he was smarter than the Charlie Eppes' and William David Michaels' of the world.

Jack laughed but choked on blood. There was no time to lose. He needed to make his statement now, before he lost any more of his waning strength. With a great effort, he reached down to his hip and grabbed the handle of his gun. He would not end his life with his task unfinished. He would eliminate the genius that had driven him to madness. With that, Carlson carefully aimed and as the white sparkling light returned to dance around him, he pulled the trigger.

**6:11**

Don's group surged forward at a run, propelled by Charlie's scream. Their flashlights bobbed up and down as they raced down the last long corridor to the renovation site. As they had reached the construction barrier, another crash of thunder sounded, one that rattled the windows nearby. Two of the flanking cops held back the rubber strips while Don and David each took a side, covered from behind by two more officers. They held position for second, trying to hear anything. In an explosion of light, the electricity came back on, blinding them all for a moment. The room remained silent.

"Charlie!" Don called. "Answer me, Charlie!"

Carefully, he inched ahead. Something moved to his left, he saw it out of the corner of his eye, and he turned, gun up and ready. A cinderblock hung from the ceiling about fifty feet away, swinging slightly. It was blatantly out of place and Don moved forward cautiously. As he got nearer, he noticed that the side of the block was discolored. In the same moment that he realized he was looking at blood, he noticed Carlson lying on the floor. Don's eyes moved ahead and it was then that he saw Charlie.

"No," he whispered. Then he screamed. "No! Charlie!" He ran forward, oblivious to everything but the bloody form of his little brother.

David Sinclair was right behind him, yelling into his walkie-talkie. "In the south wing! The renovation zone! I need two paramedic teams in here stat! I want an ambulance at the construction entrance on the end of the building!"

"Charlie. Shit. Charlie." Don's hands hovered over the slumped form of his brother, not wanting to touch him but needing to know if he was alive. He pressed shaking fingers against Charlie's neck and felt the life beating there, weak and unsteady, but present just the same.

Charlie lay on his left side and Don could see the deep cut across his forehead, still oozing, and the swollen, bruised flesh around his eye.

"Charlie, wake up buddy. You need to wake up for me."

"Don." David's voice was quiet with urgency. He pointed to the growing pool of blood forming under Charlie and Don knew that time was running out.

"David, we need to roll him over. I need to…"

"Got it, Don. Let's do it."

With extreme care, they eased Charlie away from the wall and laid him flat on the concrete sub floor. Don ripped apart the front of Charlie's shirt, sending buttons flying in all directions. His stomach dropped as his worst fear was realized. A bullet hole in the upper left quadrant of Charlie's chest was draining his brother's life's blood at a furious rate. Unthinking, Don pulled the Bureau sport shirt he was wearing over his head and wadded it into a tight ball. Knowing that if anything was going to bring Charlie around it would be the agony of having pressure put on the wound, Don laid the makeshift bandage over the wound and pressed down as hard as he dared.

Charlie was catapulted out of the comforting darkness he'd found as his chest once again exploded in agony. A hoarse cry was forced from his throat and he struggled against the hands that held him.

"Charlie! Easy, Charlie, it's me. It's only me."

Don watched as his brother blinked at the harsh white work lights and desperately tried to focus with one eye. Finally, Charlie found Don's face and his mouth worked as if he wanted to say something. It was then that Don noticed the deep red marks around Charlie's throat where Carlson's fingers had tried to squeeze away his breath. Fury like he'd never known before ripped through his soul and he clenched his fists. "David, what's the ETA on those paramedics?" he ground out through teeth that were clamped together so tight his jaw ached from the strain.

"Two minutes."

Don focused his eyes on his brother and made himself appear relaxed. His anger would do Charlie no good right now and he didn't want to frighten him with blatant worry showing on his features. Charlie's mouth was still trying to form words and Don could tell that he was getting frustrated. "It's alright, Charlie," he said in a soothing tone. "I've got you. You're gonna be fine. Take it easy."

"Don." Charlie's voice was a hoarse croak.

"I'm here, Charlie. I need you to stay awake for me, buddy. Can you do that?" Don continued to put pressure on the wound.

"Hurts," Charlie told him, his eye beginning to slide shut again.

"I know, Charlie, I know it hurts, but you can't sleep right now. You had a good sleep last night, remember? Now you need to stay awake."

"Car…"

Charlie couldn't get the whole name out but Don knew what he meant. "Don't worry about him," he ordered. "You worry about you."

"Co …"

"What is it Charlie?"

"Cold."

David, who'd been holding Charlie's hand, swore under his breath as the fingers began to tremble. "He's going into shock," he announced quietly as he pulled off his jacket and lay it over as much of Charlie as it would reach. He let go of the cold hand and pulled over a large toolbox, gently setting Charlie's feet on top. Charlie groaned as the movement jostled his tortured body and his eye slid shut again.

"No, no Charlie, you gotta stay with me!" Don's voice was commanding and harsh with tension. "Look at me, Charlie. Now."

Charlie's eyelid fluttered and opened halfway.

"That's good, Charlie. That's good. Now, listen to me. I want you to tell me the numbers in the … what the hell is it? … the Fibonacci sequence. Can you do that? It's very important I have those numbers, understand?"

"Fib … nac … ci?"

"Yes, Charlie. I need the Fibonacci sequence. It's very important."

"'kay," Charlie rasped. Even in the state he was in, it registered that it was an odd request. Still, if Don said it was important, it must be. His brother wouldn't lie. "One."

Behind him, Don could hear the paramedics approaching, but he stayed where he was, keeping pressure on the bullet hole while they set up, and answering their questions as he kept Charlie focused.

"One … two … three …"

"Keep going, buddy, you're doing fine. He's got a bullet wound to the upper left quadrant of the chest. He started exhibiting symptoms of shock about two minutes ago."

"… five … eight …"

"He was unconscious when we arrived, but revived when I put pressure on the wound. Keep going, Charlie."

"… thirteen … twenty one … thirty four …"

"He's twenty-eight. Blood type is AB positive… yes, I'm sure, I'm his brother. What comes after thirty four, Charlie?"

"Fifty five … eighty nine …"

"It's the Fibonacci number sequence. He's been fighting off sleep since he regained … He's a math professor. I gave him something to do that would keep him awake."

At last the paramedics were ready to take over. With a quick movement, another set of hands replaced Don's and he scrambled to move out of their way. While he did not want to leave Charlie's side, he knew that there was nothing he could do for him right now. He stood there for a moment, watching them hook Charlie up to an IV. Then someone was pulling on his arm. He looked up at David Sinclair who was holding out a dark blue tee shirt. Don looked at it quizzically. David pointed to on the of the LAPD officers who was rebuttoning his uniform shirt. Don nodded in thanks and pulled the tee over his head. "Is Terry here yet?" he wanted to know.

"I don't think so."

"Call her and tell her to go my Dad's, okay? Fill her in on what happened and have her bring him to the hospital. I'm going in with Charlie."

"Will do."

"I'm sorry, Agent Eppes, but we need you over here a minute." Officer Daniels motioned them over to where Jack Carlson lay. "You need to see this."

Don looked down at the man who had tried to kill his brother. One whole side of his face was completely collapsed. The cheekbone was obviously broken as was the jaw. What had been Carlson's nose was pushed completely to the side and was now unrecognizable.

On the intact side of Carlson's face, Don could see the long cuts that must have been made by the alarm clock as it smashed into his head. Then he noticed something that made him blink a couple of times.

"I don't know how he managed it," one of the other officers was saying.

Don stared at the gun that lay in Carlson's hand. His finger was still wrapped around the trigger. He looked at David, wanting to be sure he was seeing what he was seeing. "Charlie didn't kill him." He needed to say it out loud. He needed to hear the words.

Daniels shook his head. "No, Agent Eppes, he didn't. The son of a bitch killed himself."

Technical note: What Charlie did was tie two cables around the block. One cable was thrown over a front beam, then, pulling it up from the top, he raised the block vertically to a height comparable to Carlson's head and tied it off. The second cable he threw over a beam farther back. By allowing that cable to pull on the back of the block, he was able to draw it back horizontally, thus creating a pendulum effect of sorts.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note: I am not a doctor, but I play one on TV. Actually, that's not true either, so if I horribly screw up the medical side of things here, I apologize, and sincerely promise that I will do no further surgeries on my friends or neighborhood children. - Xanthia

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**7:00 pm**

The E.R. at Rampart General was filled with people. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, janitors, relatives, the walking wounded – all were moving about in the frenzy of controlled chaos that defined every emergency room Don had ever been in. Usually, he was one of the many law enforcement officials escorting perpetrators or victims needing treatment. At times, in the past, he had been with college roommates who'd managed to relearn the laws of gravity after having a few too many beers. Once in a while it had been for himself – a broken arm when he was eight, a head on collision with a baseball at twenty, the cut on his thigh from a knife wielding crack-head at thirty-one.

He was well acquainted with the way it all worked and he'd been able to deal with it. It was just how it was. You came in, you waited endlessly for a room, and you waited some more. This time, though, it was different. This time it wasn't some hardened criminal who'd taken a bullet during an attempt to flee arrest. It wasn't some victim he was trying to squeeze information from while they waited for treatment. It wasn't a drunken friend. It was Charlie.

It was Charlie who'd been wheeled away into a treatment room with an oxygen mask over his face and tubes in his arms. It was Charlie whose bare chest had been covered with blood-soaked bandages. It was Charlie whose face was so bruised and swollen he was almost unrecognizable. It was Charlie who had lain so still in the ambulance that Don wasn't even sure he was still breathing half the time. Only his lips had moved, with barely perceptible motions, as he continued to recite the number sequence Don had told him was so crucial. But when the ambulance had stopped, and the stretcher was lowered, Charlie's body was jostled as the retractable legs were released. He moaned then, and even his mouth went still.

Yes, the E.R. was full of people. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, janitors, relatives, the walking wounded – but he saw none of it. He was alone in his grief and his guilt and was oblivious to the bits of life that orbited around him. He stood at the yellow line on the floor that marked the boundary between the waiting area and the exam rooms. He stood there and stared in the direction they'd taken his brother. His eyes never left the door of Treatment Room 4. People passed in and out of his line of vision but he wouldn't let them distract him. Inside that door was Charlie.

"How long has he been standing there?" David turned, and acknowledged the doctor standing next to him. The distinguished looking man was a stranger to him but his voice was filled with a worry and an urgency that told the FBI agent that he knew Don, knew him well enough to be concerned.

The man realized that David was eyeing him and he turned to face him. "Sorry. I'm Paul Wentworth. I'm Don and Charlie's uncle."

A relay clicked in David's head. "Uncle Paul the cardiac surgeon," he stated rather than asked.

Dr. Wentworth smiled slightly. "That would be me. Has he been standing there since they came in?"

David nodded. "He won't move. I tried to get him to sit down but I don't think he even knows I'm here. I've …" David studied the man beside him, wondering how much he should say. The kind, understanding eyes told him he could be honest. "I've never seen him like this," he confessed.

"He's most likely in shock. Look, I've arranged for you to occupy a conference room. It's down the hall there, second door on the left." Wentworth pointed to a door marked "Hospital Personnel Only". David could see a hallway through the glass panel.

"Alan should be here soon. Would you take him there? I'll talk to Don, find out what's going on, then meet you there."

Sinclair nodded, thankful to have something to do. "I got it covered."

The doctor nodded, then walked slowly toward his nephew, stamping down his own growing concern and focusing on what needed to be done first. When Alan had called him, he was almost incoherent with fear. It was only when a woman, an Agent Lake, he thought, got on the phone, that he was able to figure out what was going on. Charlie had been injured in an FBI 'situation'. He wanted to ask what exactly the 'situation' was, but he knew better than to try to get information from the feds. Don was always the picture of reticence when discussing his work.

Paul used his training to assess Don's condition as he approached. He could tell from the way Don held himself, it was bad. Whatever the 'situation' had been, whatever had gone down, it was enough to drive him into a state of near shock. He was going to have to handle this very, very carefully. And he was going to have to do it before Alan arrived. If his gut feeling was correct, they would need each other. Gently, he maneuvered himself into Don's line of vision and put a hand on his arm. "Don?"

Don's line of sight was suddenly blocked by a white wall. He waited for it to go away, as the others had, but it didn't. He was forced to look up. The face in front of him was familiar, caring. Don blinked a few times. "Uncle Paul."

"Hello, Don. I came as soon as I heard."

"They won't tell me anything," Don informed him pleadingly. "They've been in there forever but they won't tell me anything."

With a practiced move, Paul grasped Don by the elbow and led him away from the yellow line. At first, his nephew resisted him, and tried to pull away, but Paul Wentworth had dealt with enough traumatized families over the years that he knew how to handle obstinate relatives. He made sure his face was clearly in Don's line of vision and he spoke clearly and slowly. "I will find out what's going on. I promise. But first, you need to move. You're blocking the way and hospital personnel need access to this area."

"But Charlie …"

"Charlie is in good hands, Don, I work with these people, I know them. They will take good care of him. But you need to move out of the way. You can't help Charlie by standing here."

Reluctantly, Don allowed himself to be led away but his head swiveled around and he watched the treatment room door as he walked. When he had been pulled far enough around the corner that the door vanished, he looked over at his uncle, who was looking at him expectantly. He realized, belatedly, that he must have asked a question.

"What?"

"I asked you what Charlie's injuries were." The how and why would come later, right now Paul only wanted the relevant facts.

"Um …" With a supreme effort, Don forced his brain back into agent mode. Uncle Paul needed information. He had information. He could do this. "Uh … he's been badly beaten … um … possible head injury … gunshot wound to the chest." As Don said it aloud for the second time, the reality of the situation caught up with him. His eyes widened in panic and his knees began to buckle. "Oh my God, he's been shot. Charlie's been shot." The blood began to drain from his face.

Thankfully, they were passing in front of a row of unoccupied chairs and Paul expertly maneuvered him into one before he collapsed. He forced Don's weak knees apart and bent his nephew so his head was between them. "It's okay, Donny. It'll pass. Just breathe. Breathe, now. It's okay. It's going to be okay."

Don listened to his uncle's soft, comforting words but he didn't believe them. It wouldn't be okay. Not now, not ever. He'd failed. He'd failed to protect Charlie. He'd promised his father he'd keep his brother safe and he'd failed. This mantra kept repeating itself over and over in his head while he struggled to pull air into his lungs in deep, even breaths. When he no longer felt as if the floor was going to open up and swallow him, he raised his head.

"Easy, Don. Easy," Paul coached as he helped Don sit up. He looked carefully into Don's worried face and read the fear and self-reproach in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to get Don into the conference room and away from the hubbub of the ER but he knew he couldn't, not yet. "Listen to me, Don. If you promise me you will sit right here and not move, I will check on Charlie and come right back."

Don almost choked on bitter laughter. He didn't know if he could keep any more promises, but he was willing to try. He had to know if Charlie would live or die. Slowly, Don nodded.

"I have your word? You won't move? You won't try and get up? Or do anything stupid?"

"You have my word, I won't move." Don had already done something stupid. He'd left Charlie alone.

"Okay, then, I'll be right back."

Don watched his uncle walk away. He put his arms across his thighs and hung his head. He noticed then that the knees of his pants were crusty with dried blood; Charlie's blood. He was assailed by the memory of the smell of it as it poured out of his brother's body and onto the floor. It had been mixed with the chalky odor of concrete dust and building lumber, and the musky odor of his own fear. He remembered the slick, sticky feel of it on his hands as he held down the makeshift bandage. Without warning, his stomach lurched and Don launched himself at the trashcan nearby. Years of FBI training, dozens of desensitizing crime scenes, all went out the window as he emptied his stomach contents onto candy wrappers and coffee cups.

Someone was pressing a wet paper towel into his hand and he straightened. A young candy striper stood next to him, a cup of water in her hand. "It happens all the time," she said by way of explanation. Don wiped his mouth and nodded. Then he rinsed the harsh taste of bile from his mouth with the water. The girl smiled, and left him then. He watched her walk away. Remembering his promise, he sat back down on the chairs and waited for his uncle. He returned in a surprisingly short amount of time.

"Don, I need you to come with me," he announced abruptly.

His now empty stomach dropped. "He's dying." He choked on the words.

"No. No Don, he's not dying." Paul immediately regretted the tone he'd used and softened it. "I need you to listen to me, okay? Charlie's very agitated. He needs surgery and he won't cooperate until he sees you."

"Why …?"

"I don't know, he won't tell me. But we need to get him upstairs as soon as possible. Dr. Mudamga doesn't want to have to sedate him any sooner than necessary because of the head wound, so I want you to come and see if you can calm him down."

Don nodded. "Okay."

He followed Paul down the previously forbidden hallway and into the treatment room. Charlie lay pale and still on a gurney. Equipment of all kinds was attached to him at different points on his body – I.V.s, heart monitors, an oxymeter. A bag of blood dripped a steady supply into Charlie's arm. They'd stripped off his clothes and covered him with a blanket. As if in a dream, Don stepped closer. He see that Charlie's mouth was moving, he was trying to convey a message to the nurse beside him but she kept trying to shush him.

"Charlie?" he called, raising his voice above the beeps and whirrs of the machinery.

Painfully, Charlie turned toward his brother's voice. Don could see relief flash through Charlie's good eye. "Don."

Don didn't so much hear his name as recognize it from the way Charlie's swollen lips moved. He moved close and leaned over, close enough that he could hear the ragged wheezing as Charlie struggled to breathe. He carefully picked up Charlie's right hand, making sure not to disturb the deep I.V. needles that disappeared into his skin. "I'm here, buddy. I'm right here. Uncle Paul said you needed to see me."

"F'rgot …."

"Forgot what, Charlie?"

"F'rgot … where left off. F'rgot … next number … in th' sequence."

It took Don a few seconds to process what Charlie meant. Leave it his brother to think of numbers at a time like this. "It's okay, Charlie. I don't need any more numbers. I got all I needed."

"Y' sure? … 's okay?"

Don put his fingertips gently against Charlie's unmarked cheek. "Yeah, Charlie. You did great." Don could sense the tension leave his little brother as they spoke. "You need to rest now, Charlie. You need to let these people take care of you, okay?"

"'kay." Charlie's eye closed and his face relaxed a bit. Don removed his hand from Charlie's face and started to pull his fingers away. With a grip that surprised him, Charlie held on. He was looking at Don intensely. His lips moved and Don leaned close again. "What is it, Charlie?"

Charlie pulled in as deep a breath as he was able. Even in his stupor, he knew he had to say this one thing. It was crucial and he didn't want to mess it up. "Not your fault," he croaked hoarsely. "No way you could know." Don didn't need to speak. Charlie saw his reaction very clearly. He'd been right. "Promise me …"

A tear slipped down Don's face. He didn't know if he could face another promise. "What, Charlie?"

"D'n't blame y'self." Charlie waited but Don didn't speak. "Promise, Donny."

"Charlie …"

The fingers on his hand tightened. "Need you … be strong… can't be strong … if blame y'self."

Don nodded. "Okay, Charlie. I promise."

"Terry …"

"What about Terry?"

"Let her … help you… help Dad …"

"I will." Don saw his uncle and a strange man who must be Dr. Mudamga come into the room. "I have to go now, Charlie. Don't give Uncle Paul a hard time anymore."

"'kay. Donny …" Charlie's voice gave out. But he didn't need to say it. It was written on his face.

"I love you, too, buddy." Don told him, his fingers gently brushing Charlie's cheek one last time.

Later, Don would not remember how he made it from the treatment room to the conference room. He would only remember that someone sat him down and pressed a cold bottle of water into his hand. He was only peripherally aware that his father had arrived and was speaking with Paul by the door. Time meant nothing. His inner pain meant nothing. All that mattered was that Charlie didn't blame him. He didn't have to ask for forgiveness or absolution, for his brother did not hold him responsible for what happened.

"Donny," Alan's voice was soft, gentle. "Look at me, son."

But Don refused to look at his father. "I'm sorry, Dad. I … didn't … I didn't do my job."

"What job, Donny?" Alan knelt on the floor and laid his hands on his son's encrusted knees. When David had called and Terry had relayed the message, he'd about had a nervous breakdown. But the initial shock had worn off. He'd spoken with Paul and was assured that everything was being done that could be done for his boy. He was still desperately worried about Charlie and right now he could nothing for him. But he could help his other son. He could help Don.

"I promised I would keep him safe," Don continued, brokenly. "It's my fault."

"No, Donny, it's not your fault, do you hear me? You said you would do everything you could to keep Charlie safe and you did. This … this … Carlson, he was what Charlie would call an anomaly. You can't predict an anomaly, Donny. You of all people should know that." Don remained silent. "You don't think Charlie would blame you, do you?"

Don shook his head. "No, he doesn't. I know he doesn't. He told me. That's why he wanted to see me. He wanted to tell me …"

"See there? Charlie needs us right now, Don. He needs us to be there for him. I need you to be here for me."

"Blood," was all Don could say.

"Blood, Don?"

"There's blood all over me. It's … it's …" Don's voice failed him and he looked at his dad.

Alan's heart skipped a beat in alarm. The emotional agony Don was feeling was clearly evident in his son's eyes. He saw that Don was looking down again, at his knees. It was then that Alan realized exactly what the crusted material under his fingertips was. He pulled his hands away quickly, as if they'd been burned.

Don couldn't help but see the motion and looked at his father again, his face distorted into a pained grimace. "Oh, God, Dad," he whispered. "There was so much blood."

A hand touched his shoulder and he slowly looked up. Terry stood there at his side, her face a mask of concern. "David told me …" She started to say something then changed her mind. "I brought you a change of clothes," she substituted. "Your uncle gave me the keys to his office. There's a private bath. You can shower and change."

Don stood up on shaky legs. "I can't. I can't leave Charlie."

"Charlie's in surgery," Alan told him. "And your Uncle Paul is in there with him. He said it would be several hours before we know anything so you have time for this."

"If anything should happen …" Don couldn't finish the thought.

Alan took a deep breath and nodded. "I know, Don. I know. But, uh, you need to clean up. You'll feel better."

"No. I don't want to …"

Alan cut him off. "Don, I can't … I can't do this without you. You know that. But I also can't wait here … with you …" Alan fumbled for the right word but couldn't find it, "… wearing Charlie's blood. Please, Don. For me."

Don looked at his father, saw the grief and desperate worry in his eyes. He also saw the tremendous effort he was exerting to hold himself together for the sake of his children.

"Okay," he capitulated. "You'll be here?"

David stepped forward. "No, we'll be on the fourth floor in the surgical waiting area. There are a couple of private waiting rooms and we've got one set aside. I'll be taking your father up and we'll meet you there later."

Alan caught his arms, stopping him, and met his gaze dead on.

"What you did, by slowing the bleeding, Paul told me you probably saved Charlie's life." He pursed his lips for a few seconds and Don could tell he was fighting emotions of his own. "You did everything you could to save him, Don. You did everything you could to keep him safe." Alan's voice did break then. "Thank you."

**7:20 pm**

Don stood in the full shower with his eyes closed and let the hot water cascade over his back. He had scrubbed himself over and over with the tiny courtesy soap and a coarse washcloth but now the soap was gone and so he simply stood there, desperately hoping he had gotten his hands clean, his knees clean.

His father was right, he had needed to rid himself of the smell of his brother's blood. However, no amount of soap would remove the scent of it from his memory. He kept seeing the images of Charlie lying on the cement floor. He kept seeing his bloody, swollen face. He kept seeing the bullet hole that, had it been inches lower, might have killed Charlie instantly. Don's eyes flew open. He wanted the pictures to end! But even though he stared at the blue tiles in front of him he still saw only Charlie.

A strangled sob stuck in his throat and he tried to swallow past it, but it burst forth anyway. Don stuffed a fist in his mouth but it was too late. The trauma and tension, exhaustion and emotion, of the past few days had caught up with him. His body needed a release and it would not be deterred. Not this time. He backed against the shower wall and let his body slide down, until he sat in the swirling pool at the bottom; the warm, soothing water splashing against him as he wept.

Terry leaned against the outside of the bathroom door and listened to the harsh sobs that the rushing water could not drown out. She wanted nothing more than to comfort him, hold him, tell him that everything would be okay. But she couldn't. The rules they'd lived by these past years were too ingrained in her. Instead, she waited, her hand flattened against the panel in silent commiseration, a pale substitute for touching him, but one that would have to do for now.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

January 16

**3:26 am**

"I need to warn you, Mr. Eppes, that Charlie's appearance may shock you. When you see him, please keep in mind that his prognosis for recovery is excellent given time, proper rest and careful adherence to my instructions."

When he'd first entered the cubicle in the Intensive Care Unit, Alan had wanted desperately to take his son's hand in his own but he was afraid if he did he would disrupt all the tubes snaking into Charlie's veins. Tubes that kept him supplied with blood and fluid, antibiotics and painkillers. One of the nurses must have sensed his dilemma because she had come over and gently showed him how to grasp Charlie's fingers without disturbing the lines. He was grateful for that but it had also shocked him to the core. Charlie's hands were so cold! He remarked about it, not intentionally, but it had slipped out. "It was because of the blood loss," the nurse had said. He would warm up soon.

Blood loss. Yes, Dr. Mudamga had said Charlie had lost a lot of blood. They also discovered that he was anemic. That was due to his exhaustion, Dr. Mudamga had told him. Charlie had managed to work himself into borderline clinical exhaustion right under his watchful eyes and he'd done nothing to stop it. Margaret had been so much better at keeping their brilliant son in good health. She instinctively knew when he was working too hard, when he wasn't eating right, when he was pushing the line between fervor and mania. But he was still trying to get the hang of it. He was still trying to make headway into the bulwark of his son's psyche, a bulwark that Margaret had breached without any effort.

"I'm sorry, honey." He sent the thought winging into that special place he always visualized her after her death. "I let you down. I promised to take care of him and I didn't." He sensed somehow that she was here with him, with Charlie. That was how she always was. Margaret was always there when you needed her. It eased Alan's heart a bit to think of her here, beside him, beside Charlie.

Alan's eyes were drawn back to Charlie, and he took inventory of the injuries he'd sustained. He was grateful that Don had allowed him this time alone with his youngest. Don had wanted to come in right away, wanted to be there with him, but Alan _needed_ this. He needed to see what had been done to his child without an audience, albeit a concerned one.

He absently rubbed Charlie's ice-cold fingers and tried to process what he was seeing. The clear line that carried crimson blood into his son's veins looked obscene somehow against the hand he held so carefully. Alan let the horror of it penetrate his soul like poison, then filtered it through his mind, knowing that, while time would heal Charlie's wounds, he would forever remember this sight of his boy, pale and cold as death, lying in this ICU, snatched from death's door solely by the grace of God himself.

"Charlie is suffering from a slight concussion. The laceration above his eye required stitches and there are numerous contusions along his jaw and cheekbones. You may be most alarmed by the presence of the respirator. During surgery, the area around his trachea began to swell in reaction to the trauma. We decided to leave the respirator tube in place until the swelling no longer posed a risk of obstructing his airway. It should be no more than twenty-four to forty-eight hours before the anti-inflammatory medication is able to eliminate that risk. Until then, he will be quite heavily sedated to insure he doesn't attempt to fight against the respirator's functioning. Paul and I both agree this is in Charlie's best interest as it will give his body time to rest and begin to heal."

The face that was so like his mother's was marred with huge black bruises. A neat row of stitches crisscrossed his forehead an inch from his hairline. The area around it, and Charlie's right eye, were painfully swollen. The lower part of his face was partially obscured by the thick artificial airway that kept his breathing deep and even.

"The bullet did a great deal of soft tissue damage which we were able to repair. It missed the major arteries, but nicked a vein, which caused him to bleed heavily."

Blood loss – because of a bullet – a bullet that someone had intentionally fired at his son. It was almost too much to take in. Alan's eyes lingered on the large dressing that covered the incision the doctors had made to remove the bullet and he shuddered. He visually traced the long, clear tube that drained the fluid out of the chest wound. A few inches to the right, and the bullet would have severed an artery. A few inches lower and it would have hit his heart.

"Both of the bones in Charlie's left forearm were broken in several places. Our orthopedist, Dr. Sanchez, will need to pin them back together in a separate surgery, but we wanted to wait until Charlie was a little more stable, as well as for the swelling to go down, before proceeding."

Charlie's left arm had been fitted with a soft splint and was propped up on a contoured pillow to minimize movement. Alan could see the thick, long bruise where Carlson had broken the bones with his hand. Dr. Mudamga and Paul had both assured him that Charlie would regain full use of the arm if he followed his physical therapy regimen.

"His kidneys are badly bruised and will take some time to fully heal. Movement will be painful and he will have to be conscious of his diet for a time. There were, miraculously, no other serious internal injuries."

A blanket covered Charlie's torso and Alan could not see the deepening bruises that marked Charlie's chest and abdomen. He knew they were there, though. He also knew that more bruises marred his back. Two days from now, when the contusions had had time to really bloom, it would be a miracle if there was any unmarked skin left on his son.

"He has two broken ribs on his left side. They will be painful as well, but caused no other damage to surrounding tissue. I know you will find this hard to believe when you see your son, but, all in all, Charlie is a very lucky young man. The damage could have been much worse."

"Dad?"

Alan heard Don calling to him softly. He didn't answer, but he tilted his head a bit to let Don know he heard. He felt his older son approach and wasn't surprised by the arm that crossed over his shoulders.

"You okay, Dad?"

"Yeah," Alan assured him without much conviction. "I'm just … trying to take it all in."

"Yeah." Don agreed. He wasn't especially okay either. He stood by his father and really took the time to look at his brother. Charlie was almost white where he wasn't turning black and blue. His untidy dark curls had been pushed back out of his face and lay limp against his head. The darkness of his hair only accented the pallor of his face and Don thought, for a brief moment, that his brother had turned to porcelain, he looked so pale and fragile. And that splint … Don couldn't imagine how he could have missed an obviously broken arm in all the commotion. He figured it must have been overshadowed by all the blood... _there was a growing pool of blood forming under Charlie and Don knew that time was running out_…Don slammed his eyes closed and willed the image into submission. After a few moments, he cleared his throat.

"Ahem…Uncle Paul says we have fifteen more minutes, then he's driving us home."

"Home?" Alan shook his head. "No, I need to stay with Charlie."

Don nodded. "I know, Dad, me, too. But we only got in here tonight because Uncle Paul used his clout. And he says that if we don't go home and try and get some rest, he'll make us adhere to the posted visiting hours instead of cutting us some slack."

"Rest? How can I rest when my son is lying here like this? Charlie needs me and I'm staying." Alan was getting angry. How dare Paul Wentworth tell him what to do? He didn't just sit through the last ten agonizing hours just to see his son for fifteen lousy minutes!

"Dad …" Don was at a loss for words. He knew what his father was feeling. He was feeling it, too. But he knew they needed to get out of this hospital, if only for a short while. The long night of waiting had taken its' toll and they were both exhausted. And right now Charlie needed rest as much as they did. He wouldn't want his father to run himself down staying needlessly by his bedside. Don took a deep breath and told his father how he felt.

Alan opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. Instead he resumed his watch over Charlie and let his mind work He'd heard Don's words, he knew they made sense but he didn't see how he could leave his boy, not now. _Margaret, help me. I can't do this._

"How can I leave him?" he asked aloud, so quietly Don had to strain to hear. "How can I just leave him here? Like this?"

"Dad, we need to get some sleep. We can't do Charlie any good right now." He wanted to add that his little brother was so drugged up he didn't even know they were there but he refrained. Observations like that would do no one any good. He opted for a more diplomatic approach.

"Charlie needs us to be strong, Dad. He reminded me of that before he went into surgery. We can't be strong if we drive ourselves into the ground with waiting. And you heard Dr. Mudamga, it will be at least twenty-four hours before they even let him wake up. We can get some sleep and then come back. Later, I'll make arrangements so that someone is always here with Charlie, someone he knows, for those times when we need a break. Okay, Dad? Can that work?"

Sometime during his speech, Don realized how very tired he was. He wasn't even sure he could walk out of the building if they didn't leave soon. His father must have sensed this because he turned from Charlie and looked at his oldest, really looked at him for the first time in hours.

"I'm sorry, Don. I keep forgetting that this is hard on you, too." He heaved a deep, heavy sigh and turned back to his unconscious son. "We'll go now. You said we can come back when we're ready? We don't have to wait for visiting hours?"

"Yeah, Uncle Paul will arrange it for us but not until morning. Later in the morning I mean. He's going to come back after he takes us home and set everything up and check on Charlie one more time."

His father nodded his assent but his eyes never left Charlie. He raised his hand and brushed it slowly along Charlie's face. Then he leaned in close to his ear. "We'll be back soon, son. I promise. You get some rest, okay?" Then, in a voice so quiet Don wasn't sure he heard it at all, "Your brother and I love you very much, Charlie, remember that while you sleep." He pressed a gentle kiss against his son's forehead. As he straightened up, a whisper of his wife's perfume wafted through his senses.

Don heard his father gasp. "Dad, you okay?"

"Yeah, just a back spasm. I'm getting to old for his kind of thing."

Don huffed out a laugh. "You and me both, Pops. You and me both."

Reluctantly, Alan released Charlie's still cold fingers, carefully pulling away so as not to disturb the IV lines as he moved. He really didn't want to leave but he knew it was best. He and Don needed to regroup and take some time to process what had happened. Besides, he knew without a doubt that Charlie wouldn't be alone tonight.

He turned to Don and gave him a slight smile.

"He really will be okay, you know? I mean, he has the best guardian angel in heaven watching over him and I know she'll keep him safe while we're gone."

Don smiled in return. His father was right. Margaret Eppes would keep watch over her son tonight. He was sure of it.


	12. Chapter 12A

**Chapter Twelve** January 21 

Terry Lake stood back a bit from the door to Charlie's hospital room. She was close enough that she could observe the occupant, but not close enough to be seen. Charlie was sitting up as much as was possible for him and Terry guessed it was in anticipation of her visit. Even though it had been five days since the youngest member of the team had been attacked, he still looked like hell. The bruises that covered most of his face had turned a grotesque shade of purplish black, as had the ones on his arms. She could only imagine that the rest of his body looked as bad. IV lines still snaked into the back of his good hand and a small narcotic pump attached to one of them allowed him to dispense painkillers as needed.

Her eyes were drawn to the bruises around his neck. There was no mistaking that the marks were from hands, hands that intended to kill. Terry swallowed, unconsciously imagining how painful it still must be. Still, she needed to turn her thoughts from the morbid truth of what brought Charlie here to the reason she was here. She was trying to get some idea why Charlie might want to see her alone. And if there was any hint to be gleaned from his behaviour, she would be glad for it.

She had had Don Eppes figured out from the day she met him. He wasn't that deep of a read when you knew what you were looking for. And throughout her life, Terry had learned the hard way that a good initial read saved you from a lot of miserable endings. It wasn't that Don was shallow or uncomplicated, because he wasn't. She knew many people who swore they would never figure him out, that he buried everything deep. Terry had to smile at that. It wasn't buried that deeply. You just had to read between the lines.

The problem with Don was that he valued honesty above all else. Well, not that that was a problem, but for most people it was certainly a handicap. In a world where false faces, false bodies and false credentials were the way to the top, someone like Don was an unknown element. If you were square with him, you had no trouble figuring him out. But if you played him false, you discovered real quick that he didn't suffer fools. It was one of the reasons he was a great agent.

The other was that Don was incredibly intuitive when it came to crime. He could reconstruct a crime in his head with amazing accuracy. Terry thought that it was because, in the moment of crime, even if you were a twisted psycho, you left an honest imprint of yourself. Disguised, hidden, unseen, it didn't matter. What you did spoke of who you were and what drove you. Again, it all came back down to honesty. And she always played it straight with Don. She had from the start. And she knew he found that very, very attractive. Too bad they were partnered in the same office. It might have been something.

Charlie, on the other hand, was – a bit different. You always knew what he was thinking. Or, at least, you thought you did. Those amazingly expressive eyes of his were truly windows to his soul. She often wondered, not in any romantic sense, what it would be like to just spend some time looking into those dark depths. She wondered what she might see that he was hiding in there. For Terry was certain Charlie had secrets and consulting for the NSA was the least of them. And while she thought she could read him fairly well, Charlie was also a master at closing himself off. Especially when it came to subjects he felt ill equipped to deal with logically. Subjects like emotions, or feelings. Press him too closely about something he didn't feel he could expound on with a logical progression of ideas and known factors and the shutters on his eyes would slam down faster than you could blink. One second Charlie could be open and engaging and the next he was as approachable as stone.

His genius was his crowning glory and Achilles' heel in one complicated package. His brilliance set him apart and he was acutely aware of it. And while Charlie didn't seem to mind letting his amazing mind define who he was, he didn't want to be defined solely by his amazing mind. It was a difficult dichotomy to balance. Charlie was part classic artist – tortured by his emotions, unable to express in words what he was feeling, escaping into the inner realms of his psyche when things became too much for him; part mad scientist – passionate about his field, intense in his beliefs, completely caught up in the religion that was mathematics; and part absent minded professor – spending hours at a chalkboard working on an equation with no thought to sleep or food, forgetting appointments when in the midst of a breakthrough, living life in a state of half-awareness of the events going around him.

But she also knew that, despite what his brother often thought, Charlie was deeply aware of the things that happened around him. And they affected him deeply. It wasn't his fault that his brilliant mind couldn't always process the realities of life. There probably wasn't any room in his head for them. And while Don thought that Charlie needed to get a grip and see life as it truly was, Terry knew that he already did. She didn't agree with Don that Charlie needed to be dragged kicking and screaming into the real world. Too many people were here already. She felt that Charlie, and others like him, should be left alone to live the lives that everyone else wished they could live – free from the constraints and horror of life in these times. That he willingly consulted with them on cases was amazing to her. And she wondered how he dealt with it all. She suspected that maybe he didn't. And maybe that's why he needed her.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"So, what do you think Charlie wants to talk to Terry about?" Alan threw out the question casually as he tossed salad.

Don huffed and swallowed a mouthful of beer. "I wish I knew. You know, sometimes, just when I think I have him all figured out …"

"He does something that makes you rethink the equation?" his father offered.

"Yeah, something like that." Don thought about that for a moment then, without really meaning to, spoke aloud. "Does anybody actually know Charlie? I mean, how do you ever find out what's going through that brain of his? How do you ever … how do you understand him? I don't … understand him." He stopped, and looked at his father. "I'm sorry, Dad. I shouldn't have said that out loud."

"No, it's okay. Believe me. I used to say the same things to your mother. She understood him, you know. I used to think she was the only one who could. But I know that's not true. Not anymore."

"He… I can't stop seeing him like some kid, Dad," he continued, not really hearing his father's words. "I know he's grown up but, man! He just … he **acts** like a kid half the time. He just sees the world … I don't know how he sees the world but it sure as hell isn't the world I see, that everybody else sees. I just don't understand how he can be the way he is. How he can just tune out reality and … I don't know … always be so sure about everything, so positive, so naive. Why can't he be … different, more like …"

"More like you, maybe?"

"Well, more adult I was going to say. Act his age, be more mature."

"I'm going to tell you something, Don, something that happened a long time ago. You were in high school, and it was shortly after Charlie had started going there for classes. You were ignoring him at school." Alan waved off Don's comment before it could leave his lips. "We didn't blame you, you were sixteen and we knew it was difficult. Anyway, he was telling your mother and I that it bothered him sometimes. Your mother asked if he wished you were different. Do you know what he said? He said, 'If Don were different, then he wouldn't be Don, and then he wouldn't be my brother.' So I want to ask you now, Don, do you really want Charlie to be different? Think about what that means."

He left off for a moment to let Don think, then he continued, softly, as if to underscore Don's thoughts. "Charlie sometimes does seem more like a child than a grown man. But that aspect of his personality is what drives him, it's what makes him an excellent teacher. You call it being naïve, but I believe it's innocence, Don. An innocence that, no matter how harsh the world can be, keeps Charlie hopeful that there's a better one out there. One that maybe he can help discover. And think about this – it might be the child in Charlie that motivates some of the things he does, but the driving force behind the results is the man he has become."

Alan left Don leaning against the kitchen counter and headed for the dining room. Eventually, his son followed and sat down.

"I just wish I understood him better, Dad. I wish I **knew** him better."

Alan put down the bowls he was carrying and sat down across from his eldest son. "I'm not an expert on your brother, not even close, but I'll be happy to help if I can." He watched as Don wrestled with something. He could see on his face that it wasn't something he wanted to admit to, and it was taking him a moment to work up his courage. When he saw that his son's resolution to get it off his chest won out over his reluctance to say anything, Alan leaned forward and braced his arms on the table.

Don saw by his father's body language that he was ready to listen, and not to judge. But it was still hard to say it. "Why didn't Charlie want to talk to me? Or you?" he blurted out. "What does he have to say that he can't say to us? And why Terry? Why not …" Don stopped there, suddenly aware that there really wasn't anyone else Charlie could have asked to speak to. "A psychiatrist?" he ventured after a moment.

"Hm. Tell me something, if you had gone through what Charlie had gone through, would you want to talk to a psychiatrist?"

Involuntarily, Don shuddered. "No. Definitely not. Psychiatrists aren't really my thing."

"Who would you want to talk to?" Alan asked, trying to keep the conversation on his end light and non-accusatory.

"Well, someone who knew something about the case, I guess. That way I wouldn't have to go into a lot of extraneous details. Someone who I thought could help me sort it out."

"Oh. You would come to me then. I know a lot about this case," Alan stated casually.

"No. I mean, no offense Dad, but you'd be too close emotionally to be able to give me any perspective on… now I know why he wanted to talk to Terry."

Alan saluted his son with his wine glass. "I think that is a very reasonable deduction." Feeling the tension of the moment pass, Alan began to dish up dinner. "Terry is a very wise young woman. I think that she has a lot to offer."

"I'm sure she'll be able to help him…" Don agreed.

"I wasn't talking about Charlie."

Don sighed heavily. "Dad, I told you, Terry and I aren't involved like that anymore."

Alan shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I think that she can help you with your feelings about this case."

"What feelings? I don't have any feelings about this case. I'm fine."

"Fine. Yes, I can see that you're fine," his father informed him without much conviction. "We're all fine. Your brother is almost murdered by a psychotic serial killer and we're fine."

"Dad, Charlie **is** going to be fine. All the doctors have said so."

"I am not worried about Charlie. I am worried about you. You have been sitting on this thing for over a week, and you were dealing with it for months before that. I know because you told me. You can't keep it inside, Don. You need to talk about it, too."

"Talk about what?" Don decided that perhaps by playing dumb, he could avoid this conversation. He should have known better.

Alan leaned forward, intent. "Look, Don, I know you better than anyone. I know that this whole thing is tearing you up inside. You think I don't know you don't sleep? I can see it in your face. You," he pointed a finger at his son, "are blaming yourself for what happened to your brother, even though you know it is not your fault."

"How is it not my fault, Dad?" Don countered passionately. "I promised him I'd take care of him and I didn't. He had to take care of himself and because of that he has to deal with the fact that he almost died! Not to mention that fact that he had to practically kill a man to do it! I failed him. Me! His big brother! I'm the one who's supposed to look out for him."

"Said who?"

"Said Mom, that's who!" Throughout this entire exchange, Don's voice had been rising. These last words were shouted at a volume that almost shook the walls. It took Don a moment to realize that he'd screamed his answer so loudly. And when he did, and when he realized what he'd said, the man collapsed bonelessly into his chair and buried his head in his hands.

"Oh, God, Dad," Don whispered brokenly, "I promised her I'd look out for Charlie. It was the only thing she asked of me and I …" His voice broke and his father heard him take in a hitching breath.

Alan held his ground across the table for the moment. This was what Don needed. He needed to release what was pent up inside of him and sympathy wasn't going to help. There would be time for comfort later.

"You feel like you failed her," he supplied. "You feel like you broke your promise to your mother."

Don didn't answer, only nodded.

"Well let me tell you something, Don, I made your mother the same promise. I promised her I'd look after the both of you and I failed in that. Charlie's in the hospital, you're a wreck. So I, too, failed my wife, the mother of my children, in her last request."

His oldest son raised his head at that. "No, Dad, no. You can't feel that way. There wasn't anything you could do in this case. There wasn't anything you could beyond what you did for Charlie here at home."

"Well then, what about you? You certainly could have done more. I mean, why didn't you put a twenty-four guard on your brother?"

"I did."

"What about Carlson then? You could have…I don't know… done background checks on all the people in your office."

"That's already done when they come to work for the FBI. The Bureau doesn't usually hire psychos."

"Well, then, why didn't you teach your brother self-defense? You know, a kid like that could use some good lessons in how to win a fight from his big brother. Even if you have to teach him to fight dirty."

"I did … Dad I did all that."

"Well, then, what else could you have done?"

"I could have …" Don stopped. What else could he have done? There had to be something. "I could have … stayed with him myself."

"Oh. So you would have been the one conked on the head instead of Keith. How would that have helped your brother?"

Don didn't have an answer. "There had to have been something," he whispered softly.

Alan shook his head sagely. "Sometimes there's not. You know, when your mother was diagnosed, I felt the same way. I should have noticed she was sick sooner. I should have made her go to the doctor sooner. I should have tried harder to find a treatment."

"No, Dad, you … you did everything you could for Mom."

"I know that now. But then … then I wasn't so sure. I confessed that to your mother one night. Do you know what she said? She said that it didn't matter what I may or may not have done. We were dealing with an unknown; an unknown that would have gotten to her in the end anyway. And the same is true about Charlie. No matter what precautions you might have put in place, you didn't know about Carlson. And he would have done what he did eventually, and the outcome could have been far worse. You have to accept that you did what you could, Don. You did what you felt was right and best and second-guessing yourself will do you nor your brother any good."

Don shoved the palms of his hands against his eyes and leaned his elbows on the table. "But I feel so helpless, Dad. I mean, he's… God forgive me, but I see him as a kid still. And he's alone and hurting and …"

Alan did move then. He went to his son and put firm hands on his shoulders. "Charlie is not alone, he has us. But I want you to listen to me, Don, very carefully. Your brother is not a child. He's a grown man, a strong man, stronger than we ever thought. And he will come through this. We all will. We're a family, Don. And that means more than anything else."

The elder Eppes watched as Don digested this information. He knew his son would realize he was right eventually; it was just a matter of how long it would take him to admit it. Several minutes passed and he watched Don absorb the conversation and take in all the things that were said. Finally, his shoulders heaved under Alan's hands as a deep, heavy sigh gusted through him.

"You're right," Don agreed tiredly.

"I know. I'm the father. I'm always right. And right now I say we need to eat. After dinner, we'll go and see Charlie. He should be done with Terry by then. Okay?"

"Sure. Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't … you know. I don't want to Charlie to know that I …I promised him I wouldn't blame myself and I don't want him to find out I…"

"That you what?" Alan asked with complete innocence. "Now, what kind of dressing you do want on your salad?"


	13. Chapter 12B

**Chapter Twelve (B)** January 21 – continued 

"You wanted to see me, Charlie?" Terry asked as she closed the door behind her. If Charlie did want to talk, he'd probably want the extra privacy.

"Yes. Thanks for coming, Terry, I … didn't really know who else …" Charlie shrugged as best as he could and gave her a small smile. It hurt to move his face still, but he wanted to make her comfortable. This wasn't easy or especially welcome for either of them, but had nowhere else to turn.

"It's fine, Charlie. I told you once before that if you ever needed to talk, I'd be here. And, so, here I am."

Charlie swallowed and looked away. This was going to be a lot harder than he imagined. "I don't really know where to … I'm not very good at … talking about … stuff."

Terry chuckled. "Well, I can honestly tell you that it's a trait you share with your brother. He's not very good at communicating his feelings either."

"Terrific. At last, something we have in common," Charlie smiled again, ruefully, and then winced when the motion pulled at the stitches in his mouth.

Terry ignored the grimace of pain and kept talking. She didn't want to get him off this interesting track. "Actually the two of you have a lot in common. A lot more than either of you notice."

"Really?" Charlie was definitely intrigued. He had always been certain he had nothing in common with Don and to be told otherwise was, well, kind of heartening. They'd spent so much time in their lives expounding on their differences, it seemed unusually refreshing to consider they might actually have traits they shared.

"Mm hmm. You are both very methodical. I mean, **very **methodical. You approach an equation the same way Don approaches a case. And you are both very close to the vest about your conclusions until you're certain you're at least on the right track. Neither of you are inclined to go running off in a direction that isn't at least somewhat validated by the data. You are both very gifted. Don isn't a genius, but he's definitely above the scale on the intellect level. You are both determined. And stubborn. And you both have very high ideals when it comes to playing fair. Both of you value justice. And you are willing to put your whole selves into a situation when you believe your contributions will make a difference."

Charlie stared at Terry for a minute, taking in all she was saying. "All that?" he finally asked, dumbfounded that she had come up with that many similarities. "We really have all that in common?" It was too much to believe, in Charlie's mind, too much to hope for.

"All that. There's more, but I think you get the idea. You and Don, you're not so different as either of you think."

"Yeah we do have a lot more in common than I thought. A lot more now, too."

Terry watched as Charlie's expressive face took on a drastic change. As soon as he got to the word 'now', those shutters she had noticed came crashing down over Charlie's previously alight and interested eyes. It was as she surmised. Something that happened in this case was what prompted Charlie to ask for her. Something that he felt gave him something in common with Don. Something that wasn't good by any means.

"Why now, Charlie?" she asked, keeping her voice soft and non-threatening.

Charlie shrugged again and began to pick aimlessly at the blanket with the fingers on his good hand. She could feel the emotions rolling off him. This latent sixth sense was what gave her the edge in her profiling work. It wasn't any sort of ESP or psychic power, it was simply an ultrasensitive ability to interpret emotion in other people. As Charlie's feelings filtered through the gauzy membranes of her psyche, she used her ability to name them to herself. Guilt, fear, doubt, revulsion, confusion – all in one gut twisting package. No wonder Charlie needed to talk to someone.

"It's okay, Charlie. You can talk to me, you know you can. I know it's hard for you, but I want you to try, okay? Just take a deep breath and start anywhere. It doesn't have to be at the beginning. Sometimes the easiest way is to just start talking."

Charlie took Terry at her word, and, without preamble, dove in. "When I was in there … after he had … and I knew he was going to kill me I just, I knew I had to do something or I was going to die and I didn't want to die. I didn't want to end up like Bill and the others. I guess I didn't think. I just … I mean I did think. I thought about how to do it, but not really because it just came to me as I stood there. And after I didn't have time because he was there and he shot me and I knew it was then or I would never see my dad or Don again. I would never have the chance to make things right with him. I would never have the chance to be the son my father deserves."

Terry processed everything Charlie was saying, even though it came out very quickly. No need to ask who 'him' was. She knew from conversations with Alan that Charlie had been trying to make things 'right' with his brother for years, long before their mother's illness in fact. The young genius blamed himself for robbing Don of a normal childhood, for not being a normal kid brother. As far as being the son Alan deserved – Charlie couldn't possibly comprehend how proud Alan was of his exceptional young son. For someone so brilliant, Charlie could be incredibly ignorant.

As for the rest of what he was saying, she was pretty sure she knew what this was all about now, but she wanted to be absolutely certain before continuing. To make a mistake in her judgment this early could cause Charlie to shut her out and she knew that that would be disastrous for the young man. He needed to get this out.

"You were in the math building. And you were trying to get away from Carlson after he'd beaten you in your office." She made it a confirming statement instead of a question. She wanted him to know she knew where he was at in the memory. When Charlie continued on, instead of correcting her, she knew she was right.

"It was so dark. I could barely see. But the lightning was bright and there was all this stuff just sitting there. Everything was heavy. I knew I didn't have much strength. I knew it had to be something I could handle and I saw the cinderblocks. I knew I could lift it with one hand. And there was the cable, and it just came to me. I didn't think. I just … I just did what I felt I had to do but now… Don told me he shot himself. But I know what I did. I know what I made. I knew then that when I pulled that cable loose and the block came down that, if it hit him, he'd be dead. I knew it but I didn't think about it. And now … now I can't stop thinking about it."

"Charlie, Jack Carlson took his own life."

"If he hadn't, though, he would have died anyway. So it doesn't matter whether he ended it because I started it. I killed him, Terry. I killed a man. I'm no better than he was."

"Jack Carlson killed for some sick sense of revenge. He enjoyed what he did. You did what you had to do to save your own life, Charlie. That does not make you a killer like he was. Not by a long shot."

"But don't you see? It's not that I killed him, I know that it was self defense. It's that … oh my God, I …"

Charlie began to pant with the effort of controlling the panic that welled up inside him every time he thought about this. It had been haunting him ever since he was cognizant enough to remember what had happened and what he'd done. How could he tell anyone what he was thinking? He thought by sharing it he could work it out but now he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure he could burden anyone with what he was feeling.

Terry wasn't oblivious to Charlie's agony. His whole body was a portrait of anguish. Terry thought that he must have been in terrible physical pain from the tension that consumed him but she realized that his state of mind was such that he didn't feel it. From what she'd seen of this behaviour before, Charlie was heading into a full-blown anxiety attack over whatever was on his mind and it concerned her terribly. He wasn't anywhere near healed and this kind of stress couldn't possibly be good for him.

"Charlie," she ventured, "I think I should call for the doctor."

"No! No, no, no." Charlie repeated the word several times more as he hugged himself with his good arm. "I have to say this, I have to get it out before it … Terry I can't keep it inside anymore. I have to … I have to know if I'm going …" his voice dropped to a broken whisper and Terry had to lean forward to hear him, "… crazy."

Terry moved from the chair and sat on the edge of the hospital bed, as close to Charlie as she could get with all the equipment and IV lines. It was clear that some kind of intervention was necessary and she would try and honor his request for the moment.

"Charlie." She waited a moment then called his name again. "Charlie, tell me what it is that's bothering you. I'm here." She could see that he was trying desperately to calm himself.

"I … I feel… about Carlson … I …"

"Remorse? Charlie, that's very natural."

"No! Not remorse. I'm …" Finally, Charlie looked at her, and the shutters were gone. Terry could see with absolute clarity what he was thinking and her heart nearly broke for the torment it was causing him. Somewhere inside him the dam had broken and the words came pouring out in a hoarse, ragged, rush.

"I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry he's dead. I killed someone and I'm not sorry he's dead. He killed Bill. Bill was one of my best friends. He killed all those others and I'm glad he's gone, I'm glad! I'm as much of a monster as he is, don't you see? I'm just as guilty, just as remorseless, just as twisted. And I'm afraid that because I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel I'm going crazy and I don't know what to do. I can't tell Don because he'll … I can't tell Dad because he'll think I'm … I just don't know what I should do."

This was one of those moments when Terry was thankful she'd gone into profiling and not psychology. A psychologist would tell Charlie something vague and placating, something that might not exactly pander to his fears but probably would do nothing to assuage them, either. As an FBI agent, as someone who had 'been there, done that', Terry could tell Charlie what he needed most to hear – the truth.

"Charlie, I want you to listen to me and I want you to listen to me very carefully." Terry waited until Charlie's haunted eyes met hers before she continued, and when she spoke it was with calm and absolute conviction. She wanted there to be no misunderstanding about what she meant or how deeply she felt its truth.

"In our work, we sometimes come across people who are more animal than human. It is not some cliché, it is not some line of bullshit the media hands out to get higher TV ratings, it's the truth. It's our job to find these animals and deal with them and put them away so they can't harm anyone again. Sometimes we can make it happen so that no one gets hurt. Sometimes they back us into a corner and we are left with no choice. And when that happens, Charlie, not one of us, not me, not Don, not David, not anyone I've ever known in the Bureau or in law enforcement, feels anything but relief that that sick bastard is gone forever and won't hurt anyone ever again."

Charlie's eyes grew wide with the inklings of understanding as she spoke, but he remained silent. Terry could see the doubt diminish somewhat but the fear was still there, hiding in those ebony depths.

"I know how it feels to take someone's life, Charlie," she admitted quietly. "And I know how confusing it is. You feel badly that you've taken someone else's life, you wonder about their families and the people who loved them. We've been told since we were children that killing is bad. You feel like you've broken the law. But you also know what kind of person they really were. You know the sins they committed and the horror they imparted to others. And not feeling remorse or being sorry that he's dead doesn't make you a bad person. It doesn't make you like him. It doesn't make you less of the person you were. It makes you one of **us**; one of the few who have been forced to stand between a madman and the millions of innocent people out there who go to bed every night feeling safe because there **are** people out there like us who are willing to **take** that stand when the moment comes.

"Your father and brother do not think any less of you because of what you did. They do not think you are any less than who you were before it happened. And they wouldn't be upset that you feel this way. I think it's more likely they would understand. And **none** of us see you as being like Carlson. The fact that you feel wrong because you don't feel remorse makes you different, Charlie. You have a conscience. Carlson never had one. Your conscience tells you you did something you've been told is bad, and you should feel bad for doing it. But your heart, and your wonderful mind, tell you that you did what you had to do. And your conscience will understand eventually, Charlie. I know it will. You just need to give it time."

Charlie swallowed and looked away, nodding slowly. "I guess … I just needed to know that… someone … understood, you know? Understood how I felt."

Terry carefully took Charlie's hand in hers. "I do understand. And so does Don. We've both been there, Charlie, and it's not a pretty place to be. But it does get better. I promise. And anytime you want to talk to me, I want you to call, okay? You're one of us, kid, and we look after our own."

"Thanks," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly.

Impulsively, Terry brushed a light kiss against his cheek and ruffled his unruly hair.

"Anytime."


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**February 1 **

**1:47pm**

Charlie sat on the back patio and let the January sun wash over him. It felt wonderful to be out of the hospital and, even though it had been almost a week, he was still reveling in the freedom of being home. "Well," he thought, "as much freedom as I can have with only one arm and seriously limited mobility."

He sighed deeply, but carefully, ever mindful of the healing ribs, and closed his eyes. It felt so good to be alone for a few minutes! For someone who spent a great deal of time by himself, it had been very difficult to be cooped up at Rampart General with dozens of people he didn't know attending to his needs. He'd had to beg his Uncle Paul to release him, and, thankfully, the good doctor had agreed. But **only** after Charlie had sworn to do everything on the post-release care list without compromise or complaint.

"_If I hear of your father having one problem with you, I'll readmit you faster than you can factor your IQ. Is that understood?" Paul Wentworth towered over the youngest Eppes, frowning down at him as he lay in bed._

"_Yes, Uncle Paul. I understand completely."  
_

"_I'm not so sure you do. You are not the best at taking care of yourself, Charlie."_

"_I don't do it on purpose!" he'd defended himself. "I just sometimes – forget."_

"_Forget? As in forget to eat? Forget to sleep? Forget to take time to unwind and relax? Honestly, Charlie, you amaze me. How someone so incredible bright can be so …"_

"_Clueless?" Don had offered helpfully from the chair in the corner._

"_I don't need your help here, Don," Charlie informed him petulantly._

"_Sure you don't." To Charlie's great dismay, Don, Alan, and his uncle had all laughed then. _

"_You will let your father and Don help you. I don't want to hear of any heroics like climbing the stairs by yourself until you are cleared to do so by me, got it?"_

_Charlie looked at the faces around him, the faces of the people he loved, and saw the concern written there - concern for him and for his well-being, concern that they had almost lost him and were damn certain they wouldn't be put in that spot again, concern that he would try and work against them in their efforts to help him._

"_I'll do everything you want, I promise, just please, let me go home. I want … I need to go home."_

"Charlie! Your visitors just called. They're almost here. I'm going to wait at the door. "

Charlie shifted uncomfortably at Alan's announcement. Not because of the impending visitors, the identity of whom no one would tell him, but because he still couldn't manage to get comfortable no matter where he sat. Also visitors meant it was time to move to the living room. And moving to the living room meant getting up, something he was not looking forward to doing.

He tried to pry himself upward with one arm, thinking that if he could sit a bit higher he'd be able to maneuver better. He only got as far as pushing up with his right arm against the chair before pain stabbed through his midsection. He groaned in pain and cursed.

"Hey, buddy, let me give you a hand. Actually, I can give you two for the moment. You seem to be short."

"Very funny, Don. I'll remember to laugh when it doesn't hurt so much."

For someone with Charlie's frenetic energy, the loss of mobility caused by his sore torso and broken arm had caused him no end of grief and frustration. Still, after a while, his normally positive disposition had carried the day and it had become an ongoing joke between the three Eppes men.

Don chuckled and moved behind the chair. Standing slightly sideways, he put his right arm securely under Charlie's and pulled him up while Charlie helped by pushing with his legs. This small movement hurt like hell and Charlie had to take several deep breaths before he felt he could move on to the next stage of actually walking.

"You ready to go in?" Don asked when he felt Charlie's breathing even out a bit.

"Yeah. Might as well get it over with."

Step by slow, careful step Don helped his brother make the short trip from the patio to the living room. He let Charlie do most of the work, while he acted more like a human crutch. He was also there when Charlie needed to lean into him and catch his breath. After a few minutes, they made it safely inside. Don lowered his winded sibling into a chair.

"You want a pillow behind your back, Charlie?" Don asked, not oblivious to his brother's pain.

"Yeah, that'd be great. Not a big one though. The thin one." Charlie leaned forward and allowed his brother to place the flat cushion behind him. He leaned back and carefully relaxed his muscles. When he realized that he was much more comfortable, he sighed.

"Better?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"Do you want a drink? Or one of those happy pills you seem to hate so much?"

"No, I'm good. And those happy pills, as you're so fond of calling them, make it impossible to concentrate. If I'm having company, I want to able to carry on a coherent conversation. You see, unlike yourself, Don, I enjoy intelligent conversation with my guests, and prefer not to limit my vocabulary to baseball stats and popular beer commercials. So, remind me, who's coming again?" Charlie tried once again to get any information about his mysterious visitors out of his extremely tight-lipped sibling.

Don smirked at him. "Like I would tell you after that heinous insult to my conversational abilities."

Charlie's eyebrows rose, wrinkling the healing scar on his temple. "Heinous. Have you been at Dad's magazine rack again?"

His big brother pointed a warning finger. "Hey, lemme tell you, that Reader's Digest is a great resource for language. I learn something new every time I go to the bathroom."

Charlie opened his mouth to reply but his father cut him off as he entered the room. "You ready, Charlie? Are you comfortable enough?"

"I'm fine, Dad. Now, who's coming? Will you tell me, please? I mean, why all the secrecy?"

"We were afraid you might not agree to see us if you knew we wanted to come."

Charlie's eyes widened slightly as the newcomer entered the living room. Seven other men followed him in and Charlie's jaw dropped a little more as each one entered. The first man introduced his companions but it really wasn't necessary, not for Charlie anyway. He knew who they were. James Nash was the one speaking. The others were Vincent Radley, Fred Baker, Tyson Wheelis, Dennis Alvord, DeVaughn Lange, Oscar Knaack, and Neil Billingsly – the surviving members of the Omega Tau fraternity.

At some point during the niceties, Charlie remembered to close his mouth. He was, quite literally, speechless to think these men had come from all over the world to see him. And he didn't know whether he should be honored or terrified. What could they want of him? Were they going to berate him for not figuring out the link sooner? Or accuse him of not doing enough to save the others?

The feelings of inadequacy and guilt he'd felt in the immediate aftermath of all that had happened threatened to break in on him again. The hours of working through his feelings with Terry began to crumble as Charlie contemplated what these men might want. Nash had finished the introductions and was looking at Charlie, expectantly. Charlie colored slightly, realizing that he'd probably been asked a question.

"I'm, ah, … sorry, I didn't… um…"

To his very great surprise, the eight men chuckled as one. "It's nice to see we're not the only ones who do that," DeVaughn Lange commented to Alan and Don.

"You mean you guys zone out without warning, too?"

"Don!" Alan's rebuke was drowned out as the fraternity brothers gave a chorus of verbal confirmations to Don's question. Then James Nash turned his attention back to Charlie and smiled gently. "I asked if you felt up to having so many visitors at one time? Your father assured me you would be okay …"

He let the question hang, unfinished. None of them had expected this young man to be the picture of health but his pale, wan features caused Nash great concern, despite Alan Eppes' assurances he was up for visitors. It was clear that Charlie had suffered greatly from his ordeal. The bruises around his neck were faded, but still visible, as were the ones on his face. And though it was half hidden by the unruly black curls, Nash could see the line of a healing scar above Charlie's right eye. Added to all that was a slightly pinched look around the expressive, dark eyes that spoke of constant pain.

Nash began to regret insisting that they all come in to see him. Perhaps they should have waited. Still, for all of that, the young man smiled at him, a small smile, but a genuine one no less.

"I'm fine. Really. I'm just… surprised. I mean, it's very nice to meet all of you, but …um … why are you here?"

Alan opened his mouth to say something but Fred Baker stepped forward before he could speak. "We wanted to meet you, Charlie."

"We wanted to thank you," Tyson Wheelis added.

Suddenly, all the men began to speak, each adding on to what the other was saying.

"What you did …"

"You saved our lives, we're sure of it."

"We wanted to thank you in person."

"We can't imagine what would have happened if you hadn't figured out what was going on."

"We just wanted to say thank you."

"We just wanted to thank you, Charlie, in person," Nash finished. "We wanted you to know that we … we realize that if you hadn't figured out the link, we all would have died."

Charlie looked away for a moment. He had saved them, but what about the others? He could have saved Bill if he'd only been quicker, if he'd only been able to make the connection sooner. His thoughts showed on his face as clearly as if someone had written them. The men of Omega Tau looked at each other, at a loss for words. This was not the intention of their visit. They never intended to cause this exceptional young man more pain. Wordlessly, a new spokesman was elected and he knelt in front of Charlie, who warily looked up into the dark face of DeVaughn Lange.

"We know what you're thinking, Charlie," he said softly. "You're thinking that you should have been able to solve the case sooner, that you should have been able to figure it out sooner."

"All of us have gone through that… all of us have felt that way for one reason or

another," Lang continued. "Nothing as dire as this by any means, but we know how it feels to wonder if our genius is worth the anguish we feel when we fail, or when we fall short of our own goals and expectations."

Charlie looked up in surprise and Lange and the others smiled.

"Being smart doesn't make us infallible," Tyson Wheelis assured him. "It makes us more aware of the consequences of our fallibility. But what you did, Charlie. You did more than any two of us could have possible done. And we are grateful for that."

"And we wanted to tell you in person. And we wanted to give you this." Dennis Alvord stepped forward and handed Charlie an envelope.

Charlie looked at it quizzically, then opened it, slowly. He pulled out what looked to be a letter and his eyes grew slightly wider as he read.

"Can you … can you really do this?" he asked when he'd read it over.

"We can," Vince Radley assured him. "And we are."

"May I ask what it is?" Don inquired politely from the other side of the crowded room. "Or is it a secret?"

"They've …" Charlie started but he couldn't seem to finish. His voice trailed off and he lost his focus as his eyes returned to the paper before him.

"We've submitted a request to officially restart and charter the Omega Tau fraternity," Dennis Alvord picked up where Charlie had left off. "We talked it over and decided that it was time the fraternity had a second chance."

"A chance to do it right," put in Billinsgly. "None of us can remember being very happy about the way Blaylock ran things. So we've decided we want to do it our way. We'll admit more members, the acceptance policy will be less stringent."

"And we're planning on going international." Oscar Knaack added. "It is our intention to make a true network of exceptional minds. And we won't be just names on a list. We will have meetings and expect our members to perform services that benefit their local community and the world community at large."

Ideas began flying around the room and Don and Alan soon lost track of who was speaking.

"We also want to set up scholarships in the names of our lost brothers."

"And set up a system for families with exceptional children."

"We also want to get something in place for those families with gifted children who can't afford to get them the special help they need."

"We want to make a sub-chapter of the fraternity for those kids who might not meet the requirements for entry but who are gifted nonetheless."

"We want to be able to include as many people as possible in this."

"We feel we could really make a difference in the world if we just get ourselves together."

"And Charlie was our inspiration."

That comment stopped the furious brainstorming and all eyes turned to the rather overwhelmed young man. "M…me? But I didn't do anything." Charlie was genuinely confused. What could he have done to inspire this incredible group of men to reunite?

"You showed us what we weren't doing," Nash told him.

"Yes," Billingsly confirmed. "When we spoke together we realized that, if we had been a true brotherhood, Carlson would never have gotten as far as he did. Surely, we would have been aware that something was up. But we weren't a true fraternity. We left you alone to do it on your own."

"And we realized that was wrong of us," Knaack added.

"Did you see Spiderman?" Alvord was asking.

Charlie nodded. "I went to see it with," his voice broke for a moment, then he swallowed and cleared his throat. "I went to see it with Bill." He smiled sadly at the memory. They had agreed to put aside their genius and watch the movie for the fun of it. There would be no picking apart the technical aspects or looking for holes in the logic. "We had a great time."

"I had a chance to meet Bill Michaels once," Tyson Wheelis told them. "He spoke at a seminar I was attending. He was a great guy."

"Yes," Charlie nodded. "He was."

"Well," Alvord continued, "do you remember when Uncle Ben said 'with great power comes great responsibility'? That's us, man. We have been given incredible abilities. And we need to use those abilities to make the world a better place. You showed us that, Charlie. And we thank you."

"I showed you…?"

Nash stepped back into the conversation. "Let's just say that we are aware, if only peripherally, of the contributions you make not only to the FBI but to other groups."

Charlie was stunned. "I … I don't know what to say. This is just so much … I mean it's…"

"It's a lot to take in, we know. And we worried that it was too much for you too soon. But your dad said he thought you were up to it."

The younger Eppes turned wide eyes to his father. "You knew about all this?"

"Yes. I knew. And let me tell you, it was nice for once knowing something the two of you didn't. Between Don's confidential work and your confidential work, dinner conversation is getting pretty limited around here. At least now we all have something we can talk about."

Everyone laughed at that and the mood in the room relaxed some.

"So what do you think, Charlie?" Nash asked once the group had quieted again.

"I think it's great. I think you have a lot of good ideas."

"Well, we figured if we were going to do this, we should go into it with the idea of doing it right. We'd like for us all to meet again in a couple of months, but we'll make sure it's at a time when you're feeling better. For now, though, we're going to head out. We promised your dad we'd keep it brief. It's been a real pleasure meeting you Charlie."

The eight men took their leave in a chorus of cheerful goodbyes and Alan led them to the door to see them off.

Charlie sat and stared at the letter in his lap. It was unbelievable, what had just happened. He almost thought he'd been dreaming it all and he would awake to find himself back on the patio sitting it the sunshine. How was it that he had inspired eight of the most brilliant men in the world to take this kind of action? Not to mention leave their homes and travel all the way to LA to see him. He hadn't done anything remarkable in his mind. In fact, to his way of thinking he'd failed to see the pattern sooner, and Bill had died because of it.

Logic told him that was ridiculous. He'd done his best. Alan, Don and Terry had told him the same thing. So had Bill's widow, Madeleine, when she'd come to see him in the hospital. She didn't blame him for not seeing the link sooner. She was grateful to him for finding the killer.

"_The kids miss seeing you," she'd told him. "I want you to come by when you're feeling up to it. They'd love to see you. **I'd** love to see you. Please don't be a stranger, Charlie." _

"That was something, huh?" Don's presence at his knee cut off his thoughts.

"Yeah. Something." Charlie didn't look at his brother. He kept his eyes down, pretending to focus on the letter he held.

Don wasn't fooled. He knew something was bothering his brother and he was pretty sure he knew what it was. Charlie still felt guilty, still felt that he hadn't done enough. And while Don understood it, he heartily disagreed with it.

"Hey. Charlie." He put the edge of his finger under Charlie's chin, gently lifting his face until it was even with his own. "I can't say I know exactly what's going on in that head of yours, but I can say this – you did more than anyone could have expected you to. And I'll say it as many times as I have to until you believe it."

Charlie sighed and actually let his eyes rest on Don's. "I know. I just have to let it … I don't know … breathe a little. Do you know what I mean? I need to be able to put some space between …I don't know, between me and … it. Does that make sense?"

Don nodded, never letting his eyes leave Charlie's. "It makes a **lot** of sense. And I know from my experience with this kind of thing that it also works." He paused then, wanting to say what was on his mind but not sure how to say it. Finally, he took a deep breath and went for the direct approach. "I know I haven't said this in so many words, but I'm very proud of you, Charlie. The way you incapacitated Carlson, the false trail… I don't know what you were thinking but it was …"

"I was thinking about you," Charlie said very softly.

Don blinked in surprise. "Me?"

"I was thinking, 'what would Don do?'." Charlie gave a half smile then turned away, embarrassed he'd let that confession out. He tried to cover the sincerity of his blunder with humor. "I guess hanging around you has had some kind of influence, huh? Most guys I know, all their brothers ever taught them was how to smoke cigarettes and swear."

"Charlie. Look at me Charlie." Don waited until Charlie's eyes were fastened on his once again before speaking. "I'm glad you've been hanging around. And I'm glad you're here to hang around for a long time to come."

Charlie smiled again. "Me, too, Donny. Me, too."

Around the corner, hidden from sight, Alan Eppes wiped away a tear. It had been a tough few weeks. And there would be a tough few weeks ahead. But they had made it through and would continue on together - as a family.

A breath of sun-warmed air wafted through the house then. It caressed Alan's cheek and wrapped around Don and Charlie. And as it passed, it left behind the light scent of a woman's perfume.

**_Fin_**


End file.
